


The Long Walk

by Elysian_Wyrd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it, Colemance, Cropped Elven Ears, Dark and Light, Dark and Shady Past, Disfigurement, Elven Slavery, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor Doesn't Talk Much, Kithless Inquisitor, Loss, Loss of Control, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Lost Love, Love, Memory Loss, No I mean it it's a very slow burn, Orphan Inquisitor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, Rating May Change, Redemption, Repentance, Self-Discovery, Serious, Slavery, Slightly Unreliable Narration, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Tags May Change, slight AU, slight dub-con, social ineptitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 51,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysian_Wyrd/pseuds/Elysian_Wyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lonely but misanthropic Samara Lavellan begins a long and trying journey at her Keeper's behest, only to witness the destruction of the Conclave and, slowly, begin her journey as the Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor.</p><p>Along the way, she finds herself inexorably drawn to a certain spirit-- perhaps to the point of obsession --and learns to manage the pain of her past. Said past is rife with troubles; including traumatic memory loss, mild disfigurement, murder, and lost love. Samara's path will be a dark and lonely one: unless she can overcome the burdens of her past and let the pain go...</p><p>But something dark lurks in the shadows of Samara's mind, begging to be set free. Will she be overcome by the monsters from the Breach, or the ones in her own head?</p><p>Editing to disclaim: This is a long story that includes Colemance, rather than a Colemance solely for its own sake (though I may make one later).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've finally begun my own, not-so little Colemance piece! I dearly hope you enjoy it but, if not, try not to hate me: it's my first fic here, and my first time with something more than a oneshot (I've done 3-4 Elder Scrolls oneshots before, but nothing else). Also, my apologies: I'm still figuring out this formatting, and wish I could just paste it from OfficeSuite... I want to get this up, so I'm just going through it fast. Alas.
> 
> Now, without further ado...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short introduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I've finally begun my own, not-so little Colemance piece! I dearly hope you enjoy it but, if not, try not to hate me: it's my first fic here, and my first time with something more than a oneshot (I've done 3-4 Elder Scrolls oneshots before, but nothing else). Also, my apologies: I'm still figuring out this formatting, and wish I could just paste it from OfficeSuite... I want to get this up, so I'm just going through it fast. Alas.
> 
> Now, without further ado...
> 
> Translation notes:
> 
> Fenedhis lasa - a generic curse  
> Garas - come  
> Ma'vhenan - my heart, a term of endearment  
> Abelas - sorry
> 
> P.S. I'm unclear on whether the apostrophe is only present in phrases that include da (a diminutive, as opposed to ma, a possessive in this case), or if there is some overarching structure that's eluding me. I given to understand that it relates to intonation, but I've actually seen it used both ways in fic. I'm including it, because it looks cooler. I'm terrible. I know.

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet_

_When far away an interrupted cry_

_Came over houses from another street,_

 

_But not to call me back or say good-bye;_

_And further still at an unearthly height,_

_One luminary clock against the sky_

 

_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right._

_I have been one acquainted with the night_ _._

_\-- Robert Frost, Acquainted with the Night_

       The jarring crash of flesh against wood echoed through the subtle dawn that broke within the outskirts of the Planasene Forest. Leaves rustled and branches snapped with a resounding rattle, harsh and brittle, like the clatter of bone shattering beneath a stone. Samara recoiled inwardly-- far too acquainted with that sound for her liking --but it did not show. Her countenance remained passive-- placid --her mind channeled towards her task. Pale eyes narrowed, shining like a predator's in the half-light while her slim head cocked westward, listening intently. Her fingers twitched and tapped at the drawstring of her ironbark longbow, the only indication of her restlessness. She otherwise remained unmoving, silent and still, merely a shadow among shadows.

       The forest loved her secrets, and Samara loved this forest. Darkness was a luxury; a cloak, a balm. She paid the price with many sleepless nights. She paid it gladly. To see without being seen... it was a comforting though. Peaceful. Serene.

       The brilliant shimmer of her eyes sparked with flecks of gold and chartreuse, burning through the early morning haze. She prized her far sight. It served her well, even when all else failed. Her gaze flicked tightly across the forest as though tracking motion rather than scanning for it; her ears pricked with every movement, her pupils dilating as her vision snapped in the direction of the source. The dawn chorus of birdsong had just begun, every flittering creature warring for its voice to be heard first above all others. She reluctantly tuned out their clamoring mellifluence as the shuffling grew close. _There_. A doe burst free of the grasping underbrush with a single majestic spring, loping at full speed with a lightness that contradicted the coiled muscles bustling within her limbs. Tension rippled across her stately form, and panic blazed within normally gentle eyes. Another crash followed moments later, like ripples in a pond. A massive grizzled wolf leapt from the woods behind, hot on the heels of the fleeing deer. Samara took a low breath and began to draw her bow. The wolf charged from the north at the doe's flank, head low and lips drawn into a snarl, ready to snap at her hind legs. Where the doe was all wiry thinness and lithe speed, the wolf was low, stocky, and extremely well-muscled. There was speed and grace, to be sure, but also a dogged persistence that spoke of power; endurance, and a center of gravity that made for tight maneuvering through the brush.

       The attack drove the deer southward, towards Samara, who was silently crouched upon a low-hanging bough. She took her time with the draw. She was in no hurry. When her bow was pulled taut with a tension that would make the unaccustomed tremble, Samara spoke soberly, her tone soft with reverence. "We honor your sacrifice," she whispered, the barest breath escaping her lungs. She uttered the words like a prayer, solemn and grave, yet filled with the warmth of love. When her lips twisted minutely into a frown, she allowed her eyes to close for but a moment in sorrow and thanks. When she opened them again, it was to the baritone of the doe's warning snort, reverberating through the trees. She hesitated. Just a beat, but it was enough-- and for this she was thankful. At their mother's insistence, two spotted fawns darted from their hiding place in the Salal, rushing ahead of their mother on shaky legs. " _Fenedhis_ _lasa_! Revas!" she shouted quickly, knuckles white upon the bow that now hung at her side, "Hold!" At her words the great wolf froze in place, eyes boring into her own, head tilted at an inquisitive angle. He shifted restlessly in place, a whine breaking softly from his throat. " _Garas_ , _ma'vhenan_ ," she spoke through a half-hearted grin, "It seems there will be no meat for us this day." With only a muffled whoosh like the sound of falling leaves in Autumn, Samara dropped from her perch. Revas trotted eagerly to her side, his tongue lolling crookedly from his mouth, panting from the exertion of his coursing. " _Abelas_ , Revas," she hummed through a sigh, her fingers falling to cart absently through his ruffled fur. "Perhaps the clan will be willing to share."

       Only for the sake of her faithful companion would Samara entertain such a notion, and even then she did so with a sense of unease. She was not well liked among the Dalish of Clan Lavellan. She was not particularly well liked anywhere. As a hunter of the People, Samara ought to be respected among her peers. Perhaps she simply had none amongst which to be respected. But then, she was a hunter in name only: a technicality that afforded her a modicum of safety and belonging, but never respect. Not with her... history. If it were not for the quiet guidance and protection of Keeper Deshanna, Samara would lack even that hollow comfort. Revas, conversely, was far better liked by the clan. A beast such as he, it was said, brought honor to them all; recalling to mind the glory of elder days, of Halamshiral and the great Emerald Knights ere the fall. Samara could not disagree. It was a shame, they thought, only that he had fallen to the hands of some unworthy flat ear. On that point, she could disagree. If she could earn the regard of such a creature, was she not worthy of their own? Of their bitten tongues, at the very least. Alas, even the barest logic was in short supply these days. With a sigh, she cut off her bleak thoughts. It had grown too late in the morning for them to hunt successfully; they were both of them exhausted, and far more effective in the wee hours. Too many fruitless efforts had been spent that night. With a twinge of guilt haunting her steps, Samara turned 'round, making for the clan's current encampment.


	2. Heart of my Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, formatting is now my existence's explicit bane. It's so laggy at the moment!
> 
> Translation notes: 
> 
> Vallaslin - blood writing, a painful form of tattooing common to the Dalish in honor of their gods, though it was initially (unbeknownst to them) a marker of the ownership of a slave
> 
> Rabbit - a soft racial slur against elves in general (because of the ears, heh)
> 
> Da'vhenan - little heart
> 
> Ma Fallon - my friend
> 
> Da'len - little child

_Then leaf subsides to leaf,_

_So Eden sank to grief,_

_So dawn goes down to day_

_Nothing gold can stay._

_\-- Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay_

_It was the day of her coming of age ceremony. The fateful day when all elves accept the painful burden of their_ Vallaslin _. And Samara, ever a fool, had refused. Worse, still, she had told them why. She had stood there, the flames of the campfire flickering ominously upon her face, and spoken to her people of their folly. The old gods, she reasoned aloud, were gone. Whether by treachery, necessity, or choice, they had abandoned the People during their hour of need. It was by the hands of Andraste and Shartan that their deliverance came, by the blood and toil of the People themselves. And then, she_ said it. _The words that would forever stain her: brand her an outcast of her only home. "The_ Maker _wrought our freedom," she shouted proudly, as though it would explain all._ Change _all. "And I will not mar my flesh in obeisance to false gods._ Dead _gods." The outcry had shocked her. The hatred in their eyes, the venom on their tongues. She did not understand it. Would not believe it, had it not happened as she watched, face blank with horror. Yes, Samara was a fool._ _She knew it now, even as tears of disbelief flooded her face, skin red with the lash of branches and the incessant worrying of her hands._

_Later, she would know it a product of miracle, and the cunning machinations of her beloved Keeper, that she was not cast out-- or worse --that night. She had then thought their rage the height of cruelty, the worst of the world that she, in her youth, could yet recall. Samara had much to learn._

_She had run. Run from the rage, the swelling voices, the shame. Like the child she was, she had fled into the night. With each bite of branch on unmarked skin, each slice of rock upon bare feet, Samara felt vindicated, even as her righteous indignation faded. It is only just that one suffers the burden of belief. If solitude was to be the punishment for her faith, she would bear it gladly. She would-- with a harsh crack, Samara's footing gave way. Slick with blood and rainwater, her feet could find no purchase. With a shocked cry, her face made full contact with the damp earth. She made no move to stand. Curling inwardly, tears of weakness still streaming unbidden, she lay unmoving. Whimpers broke from her throat, whether from the physical pain or the weight in her heart, she could not tell. Her grasp of time left her, and she knew not how long she remained. Minutes. Hours. It was all the same._

_"Sammy?" A voice called out to her from the shadows, soft with worry, yet trembling with uncertainty._

_She knew it was him without looking. His voice was imprinted upon her heart. No other would seek her, besides. She was unwanted. "Thomas," she croaked, her voice rough from use, tainted with sorrow, "Oh, Thomas." Trepidation of unknown origin warred within her heart, making her movements slow. When she finally peered at him from between her curled arms, his face was scrunched up in a mixture of anger and concern. She saw him settle on concern, his gaze becoming something soft and wonderful._

_"What's wrong, rabbit?" he asked gently, moving to sit by her side. His hand fell to stroke her hair. "You can tell me anything. You know that."_

_Her fingers moved instinctively to touch her scarred ears, stroking over the edges of the long-severed nubs. "I hate it when you call me that," she whispered hoarsely, though a lopsided smirk grew on her lips. Her hands fell back to play nervously with the wet soil._

_"No, you don't," he grinned, a soft laugh under his breath. The smile, though, was tinged with sadness. He was right. She didn't hate it at all. From him, the gentle slur had become a term of endearment. She loved how he did that. How he made beauty from ugliness. "Talk to me, Sammy," he pressed gently, fingers still tangled in her mussed hair._

_"I... I tried to tell them, Thomas. I tried to tell them of the Maker. They wouldn't listen, they..." she trailed off from her rushed speech, reading the sadness in his clear blue eyes. She had to look away. Couldn't bear his pain._ My fault _, she thought with some disgust. "They hate me," she said instead, all too certain. "I thought they'd understand. Thought they'd see. They don't see anything. Hearts clouded with old hate, lips twisted in scorn, tongues lashing wild, eyes glazed. Blind, they're so blind, Thomas!" She paused abruptly, words dying into a gasped sigh; she had grown loud in her own anger, and it weighed dark, like a shadow on her young heart. That was not right. She would not let the anger take her as it had them, turn her into something vile, ugly. "Do you hate me too,_ da'vhenan _, for my folly?"_

 _Thomas sighed, hand dropping from sopping hair-- brown turned pitch black with wetness --to cradle her chin lightly. "Look at me, Sammy," he instructed, even as his hand turned her to face him fully, "I could not hate you._ Never _. Do you understand?" He waited patiently for her response._

_When she nodded, he continued, "The world is not ready for you, dear girl. Sweet, kind, beautiful Sammy. It isn't ready yet. But it will be. It will need you, some day soon, and those like you. And then you must be ready. Do not let their prejudice weigh on you, friend. Do not let their hatred darken your pure heart. You can't change everyone. But you can change the world." He nodded absently at his words, a smile growing wide on his face. "You will. I believe it. With all my heart, I believe."_

_His smile then was infectious, and so, too, was his belief. It warmed her to the core. "Thank you,_ ma fallon _. Dearest friend..." she paused, her smile becoming devious, "You think me beautiful?"_

_"It is not what I think, silly girl. It is simple truth." He pinched gently at her cheek, his head shaking side to side in amusement._

_She sighed again, her thoughts swiftly returning to the failed evening. Seated upright, now, she leaned back on her arms and gazed pensively at him. "I did not mean to force myself upon them. My beliefs, I mean... I only bid them listen, and think for themselves."_

_"I know, dear one," he answered quickly, eyes locking on her own, "Truly, I do. I know your heart. I know you. And believe me when I say, the Maker is with you. You are special. Do not forget it."_

_She could not stop the heavy sigh that breached her chapped lips with force. Her hands dug into the earth, grasping and loosing. Thomas, of course, did not miss it. It earned her a petulant eye roll, strangely becoming on his soft features. Still, her thoughts chafed at her mind, rough and worrisome. She turned them about like one would worry a coarse pebble in hand. "What am I, friend, to cause such discord?"_

_Another eye roll. "You are Samara, precious one. You are_ you _. And there is nothing better in this world to be." His hand rose to stroke her cheek, gentle and slow. Reverential. A tingling warmth remained in the wake of his roaming thumb, as it traced lazy circles upon her windblown skin. "I told you already, you are beautiful. Most fair in all the worlds, body and soul. When will your doubt cease? Will you not believe in me, as I, in you?"_

 _Her breath caught in her chest, her body freezing outright. She struggled for words. "How can I believe you, heart of my heart, when you speak the unspeakable with such practiced ease? A human has not looked so at an elf-- broken and scarred --in eons beyond measure, I am sure. What you speak so freely... it is too precious for my shattered heart to bear. You make me beg-- pray --for words beyond my years, Thomas, as I cannot possibly convey the warmth in my soul at your acceptance. When none will hear me, you are there. When none will suffer the presence of this fool child, you... You_ seek me out _. I struggle for words because there are none. In Thedas and beyond, no word exists in our frail tongues for the joy you bring me, the kindness you have shown. You, Thomas. You are a treasure beyond all measure. I praise our Maker to have met you: a light in dark places, when all other lights give out."_

_He blinked slowly, his hand withdrawing in surprise. Samara shuddered at the lost touch, the warmth of him spilling from her as blood from a wound. Indeed, she felt wounded by the absence. "Rabbit..." he whispered huskily, eyes suddenly dark. He looked so lost in that moment, like a pup shrinking back from the cold. She longed to bring him comfort, as he so often brought her, but she knew not how. Confusion brought a frown to her face, though she did not notice. She saw him only, knew only him. All else was lost on her. With a startling suddenness he coughed awkwardly, though it morphed midway into a hoarse chuckle. "I'm your elder, rabbit. You have to trust me. I know best, and all that. You're not broken. You never break. Never. Whatever is thrown at you, you simply endure. Your light is unfailing. I wish we were all more like you."_

_"My elder by three small years, mind! That hardly wins you the right to chide me, good ser. And you're one to talk about endurance! With all that you've been through..."_

_He shrugged. "Stop your grousing, Sam. You have suffered more than any should in a full life, and you are so young yet. But I have no intention of competing with you over who has the lesser fortune."_

_"I told you already,_ ma'vhenan _, I have great fortune, for I have known you."_

 _He groaned loudly in response. "_ Maker _! Would you take more care with your words? Do you have no inkling of their effect?"_

_She blinked. "Pardon? Have I offended? I meant you no slight. The opposite, in fact."_

_"Truly, your sincerity will be the death of me, rabbit. Your innocence knows no bounds! I am but a man, dear one. Fallible and weak."_

_Dumbfounded, she stared at him. Her eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. "I realize that you are a man, Thomas. I assure you it has not escaped my notice. It is the relevance of this fact that eludes me."_

_He gave a short laugh, harsh and strained. "Of course it does, rabbit. What would you know of the weakness of man? You are strong. In will, body, and mind. The lust of the flesh does not prey upon you."_

_Oh._ Oh _. Samara tried her damnedest to stall the blush that threatened to appear on her cheeks. She had no idea if she succeeded. "We're speaking of sex, then?" How had_ that _happened. Maker above. "I am not a clueless child, Thomas. Fret not. There are few secrets in my clan, save those skittering within my wicked heart. My people have discussed the matter with me openly. Long ago, in fact. We are not ashamed of the act. To love... it is a blessing, divine and pure. That does not change when that love is made manifest in a physical nature."_

_Thomas, for all he knew of her, seemed taken aback by her bluntness. To his credit, his flinch was discreet. Mostly. "Is it not the same among the humans?" she asked, when he gave no reply._

_His hands twitched at his side. "Yes and no," he said finally, avoiding her eyes, "but it is not that which concerns me."_

_"And what concerns you, then?" She was inching closer, demeanor predatory. A smirk grew on her face. Dearly, she hoped, her unease did not show. She did not appreciate displays of weakness on her part. Sobbing before him was enough. At least she had good cause for that. To be afraid of this boy-- no, this_ man _, as he claimed --whom she had known so many years amidst the sheltering secrecy of the trees... it was absurd. She would not have it._

_"As I have said countless times, rabbit, your heart is pure. I treasure that purity beyond all earthly concerns. I would not tarnish it with my petty desires." He paused, mind clearly working as he chewed his lip. "You said you discussed the matter openly. Only discussed?"_

_She laughed then, with a happy sort of airy freeness. Fearing he might misconstrue the gesture, she bit her lip and shook her head. She was not laughing at him, after all. "_ Ma'vhenan _. They hate me, remember?" Her lip quirked, humor working its way into her tone. "Discussed only, yes. None have caught my eye. None have earned my regard. None have won my heart. You are my sole companion. I have touched no other."_

 _His quick smile turned suddenly to a frown. Clearly, he was still thinking far too much. As was his wont. "I'm sorry," he stammered, swallowing hard, "I... The question was unworthy of me. Inappropriate, impolite. I do not own you." He waved his hands in the air, a silly, desperate gesture meant to placate. It would seem her history had just sprung to mind, causing him to regret his words. "I mean... that is to say, no more than any man can..._ Shit _. I didn't mean it like that, Sammy. I'm sorry! I only meant that, eh, I have no claim on you. That's... I'm sorry. I beg you, do not think less of me for my fumblings."_

_"If anything, you silly man, your fumblings endear you to me yet more. I was not wroth with you then, and I am not now. I beg you, cease all this pointless worry. If by some miracle you did not know it before, know it now, with all your heart: I love you, Thomas. I have for years beyond your imaginings, though I knew not then what it meant. I know now. Is that not enough?"_

_Thomas stood dumbstruck for a time, completely unmoving. She doubted he expected a confession from all this madness, but she did not doubt his heart. She knew now as she had known always: he loved her in return. It was practically writ in stone; plain in his every action, his every word. In this, above all things, Samara was certain. So she did not worry at his silence. She gave him time. But only so much. Samara was not renowned for her patience._

_Slowly, she resumed her creeping, until finally he looked up from his feet and straight into her eyes. He started, nearly falling backwards in his surprise, but was steadied by a hand about his waist. "Thomas? she asked with a tilt of the head, finally catching his elusive eyes. His bashfulness was rather unexpected. New, but not unpleasant. She reveled in the stolen power it gave her. She'd worry about the implications of that later. Not so kind or pure at all, really._

_He_ hmm'ed _in reply, distracted beyond reason._

_"Thomas. May I kiss you?"_

_"... what?" "I asked if I may kiss you, Thomas. And you're behaving quite rudely in response, I'll have you know."_

_"No, I'm sorry. I mean, not no! Oh, Maker, not like that. I meant... I spoke rashly. Foolishly. Offensively. I did everything wrong, everything, and still you want to kiss me? What did I do to warrant this? I do not deserve you, Samara. I am richly blessed. See, you are not the one most fortunate, not by a long shot! I--"_

_With a longsuffering sigh she leant forward, all trace of hesitancy now fully banished. Mid sentence, she stole a kiss from him. And she regretted nothing. She had meant for it to be chaste, gentle. Simple, short, and sweet, an eased entrance for their first romantic touch. But she forgot herself. Failed utterly. It began somewhat slow, of course; he needed time to process, after all. When they first came together, she brought his bottom lip between hers, suckling and nipping at it with relative gentleness. But Samara was not known for her gentleness, either. Then his mouth opened in a gasp, and all was lost. A growl rumbling low in her throat, she pressed her body roughly against him. The force of the contact sent him sprawling against the nearest tree, likely bruising. He didn't seem to mind. In that moment, neither did she._

_One hand pressed against the tree, splintering the brittle bark against her palm. The other struggled at the base of his spine, clawing and fisting into his rumpled hair. He was kissing her back now, echoing her passion with at least as much eagerness. She was surprised by how easy it all was. She was more surprised when a moan escaped her, as his left hand rose to caress her ruined ear. The sensation was unexpected. It was good. Her mouth left his to trail kisses along his jaw, to bite and suck at his ear. Now he was the one to moan. It pleased her more than she thought possible. His breathing grew shallow and rapid, his head leaning back against the tree, angled reflexively to grant her better access._

_"Samara!" he cried out when she bit down on his throat, her lips curled back into a wicked grin. Her name on his lips in such a lecherous tone... it brought devious little shivers of delight down her spine. She wanted more. Insatiable, that was the word. Truly, she was_ terrible _. She didn't mind it, not really, but... But. It was too soon for them both. Too fast. That was a strange thought-- almost funny --that, after knowing someone for so many years, anything could be considered fast. But such it was._

_Despite her train of thought, the hand from the tree was now pressing hard against the firm muscles in his chest, slowly trailing lower. Her mouth was still on his neck, nipping and licking and it was just so damned good--_

_"Samara..." he whispered brokenly, right in her ear. His breath tickled, feeding the frenzy within her._

_"I..." "I know,_ da'len _." And she did. She hated it, but she did. Even as both their bodies writhed against each other as if on instinct, nearly rutting in parody of an act neither of them truly understood, they both knew. "Worry not. I will not defile your chastity this night."_

_He laughed at that, voice a low, quivering rumble. "I-" A sigh, deep and rattling with emotion. "I am indebted to you."_

_Gently she eased away, hating the newfound distance between them. So many years spent talking, caring, wanting, but not touching. Not like this. Love was one thing. But the act of loving... it was more difficult than she imagined. Her lip quirked, affection and attraction battling for supremacy within her. "Whatever for?"_

_"I told you, Mara." She smiled widely, warmed by the man's many endearments for her. "I am weak. If you did not harken to my half-hearted plea," he frowned, resting his full weight against the tree, "I doubt I should have pressed the matter further. I imagine I would have obeyed your every request of me, slave to your will." He smirked, apparently amused by his choice of words. Intentional this time, then. How cheeky._

_"Your tongue has grown bold since I claimed it,_ ma'vhenan _," she laughed, delighting in the flush that graced his face, "but I am afraid you have it backwards. You're quite strong. Were it not for your staunch will-- your blessedly stubborn valor --I would have no interest at all in restraint. Your actions honor us both, and thusly it is I who is indebted to you. Forgive me my weakness, love, and I may forgive you your strength." She did not know how much truth her words contained, but she felt the need to act more confident than she was, especially around him. She was hardly immune to regret and, despite her words, she prized restraint. Regret was, in fact, already gnawing at her, but she would not tell him so. It would only cause him pain. Loss of control was uncommon for her. Context aside, it was not a pleasant experience._

_"As you say, beloved. I will not argue against you. Think well of me if you must; I will revere you all the same."_

_"So be it," she huffed, pressing a swift kiss to his brow, "though I shall offer you the same and more."_

_"Ah, sweet agreement at last. Come," he spoke deeply, causing a shiver to ripple through her, "let us leave this place."_

_She nodded, taking his outstretched hand. The gentle insinuation of his words was not lost on her. Yes, they could leave. Together. Forget about the pains, the old hurts. They could craft a life together: make their own destiny. Make it finally happy. "And where shall we go?"_

_"Wheresoever you desire. Wherever will grant you peace."_

_A smile lit her face. It seemed she could not stop smiling. Just like that, the night had turned from sighs to smiles._ _"Then anywhere will suffice. For so long as we are together, peace is mine to hold."_

_His expression grew strangely serious, though she felt no cause for concern. She was far too elated, far too enamored, far too trusting of his goodness for any worry to touch her mind. "I love you, Samara," he said finally after a few moment's silence._

_"And I love you, Thomas."_

_They walked aimlessly into the forest, hand in hand. The darkness did not trouble them. They would find their path together. Neither noticed the narrowed eyes watching their exit. Neither heard the growled curse fall from twisted lips. Samara and Thomas were in a world entirely their own, and they were happy._

_On the eve of her sixteenth birthday (or so it was estimated, given her uncertain past), Samara had her first kiss. It was the best day of her life._


	3. Six Years to the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cole finally shows up.

_Oh, no no no, it was too cold always_

_(Still the dead one lay moaning)_

_I was much too far out all my life_

_And not waving but drowning._

_\-- Stevie Smith, Not Waving But Drowning_

       "Happy birthday, Revas," Samara whispered while stroking the wolf's long hair. Still bearing his undercoat, it seemed. It would fall soon enough. She loved his fur, loved the texture, thick but soft, the color; gray strands tipped with black.

       The day of Revas' birth was as uncertain as her own. Instead, they celebrated the date they were brought together. It was never much of a celebration, given what the day meant to her. This time, though, she would not cry. She had promised herself time and again.

       Still, she liked it; sharing a birthday. Liked the closeness it fostered, the connection. Needed it, maybe.

       They stood at the outskirts of clan territory, before the great statues of Fen'harel that faced outward, in warding and warning both. With a great, pained sigh she stepped forward. The camp was close, now. So close it hurt. Biting her lip until it stung, she pressed onward. She would not have Revas going hungry. Not today.

       As they neared the camp, her thoughts swarmed back to the second time she lost herself. _Twice in one day_. It had to be a record-- one she hoped to never break. No, not hoped. Hope is futile, weak and wanting but never _doing_. She would lose herself no more, simple as that. Hope had nothing to do with it. Talking herself into it, she realized. Each day she felt less and less cause for her damned precious restraint. Her resolve was wavering. She could taste blood welling in the back of her mind, thick and all-consuming. She wanted more... _Monster_ , she thought, and this time she barely recoiled.

" _Thick, black, coating like tar. Copper and sulfur. The taste leaves a stain. It's everywhere, in everything. Hands, mouth, eyes... heart. Six years, lost in the dark. Six years to the day. Still it stings like new._ You're wrong, you know. You aren't black inside. Not yet."

       Samara jumped out of her skin. A young man stood before her, cloaked in ratty leathers and hiding beneath a goofy wide-brimmed hat. His eyes were on the ground, she noticed, not her. She felt uneasy. No one snuck up on her. _No one_. Her mind was buzzing with confusion and annoyance, but Revas merely watched on with tilted head. This calmed her greatly. The man's words were troubling, but easily ascribed to some asshole clan member playing a tasteless joke. _Strange, to use a human..._ _No, not strange. Only more cruel_.

      The man shrugged his shoulders, the gesture making him appear smaller. "I am no one."

She blinked. _Well, that answers that question?_ Heaving a great, cleansing sigh to slow the shaking, she looked at him more closely. _Clothing as bad as mine. His own tailor, probably. Covered in grime. Tired. Lonely? Blonde hair like_ his _. Maker, it hurts..."_ No one is _no one_ ," she said finally. His eyes met hers curiously at that, and she froze. She couldn't say why, exactly. They were fairly ordinary as eyes go, if a bit more piercing. Okay, _a lot_ more piercing. _And expressive. And sad. And old. So very, very old._ Sorrow overtook her heart more than it had already. Tears begged to flow, but she denied them.

       "I'm sorry," he spoke in a rush, his gaze falling back to his feet, "I made my clothes. I don't know if I'm lonely. And I'm sorry about my hair."

 _You can read minds?_ She thought this incredulously, even as her heart warmed a fraction at the unexpected kindness. A test, maybe. _Not surprised. Why aren't I surprised?_ He nodded, she sighed. "That's not something you should reveal so easily. People could find a way to take advantage, I'm sure." _And don't worry about your hair, silly._

       "You don't trust people," he stated bluntly, shifting on his feet.

       "You know my mind. Should I?" He said nothing, and she sighed again. "Who are you? And please, don't say no one." _It isn't true. You're someone._

       He nodded again, too eager to agree-- _that never goes well_... "I'm Cole." It was the only answer he offered.

       "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cole. I think. I'm Samara, but you know that already, don't you? Umm..." This was getting awkward fast. _Why are you here, Cole? These are Dalish lands._

       "To help," he answered cryptically.

       "Help what?"

       "You."

      _Oh._ "Why?"

       He shrugged again. "It's what I do. I help."

       "Sounds lonely."

       " _Crushing, tight in my chest. Lungs working but burning. The air won't come. I'm underwater. Under earth. Can't breathe. Why should I? He doesn't. Not anymore._ " Both of them frowned. Her eyes narrowed, and Cole's shoulders slumped a fraction more. "I don't know."

       "Well," she stated, crumpling inwardly, "Are you _happy_?"

       "I'm not sure," he said, to her supreme annoyance. "I think so," he added, likely for her benefit.

       "You should do what makes you happy," she chided, still rather annoyed by his evasiveness, or was it indecision?

       He laughed softly, catching her eyes once more. "You want to help _me_! But _I'm_ here to help you."

       She found it more sad than funny, really, but tried to push that particular thought from her mind. _It's easier when they can't hear me._ "Maybe helping you _would_ help me, hmm?" _Never mind, too many circles. Getting dizzy._ "Fine, fine. How can I help you help me?"

       "You try, so hard, too hard. Emotions climb, end over end. Sediment in a millpond. The water builds, soil churns. Then the dam breaks."

       Anger found her quickly then, not at his words but at their reality. _I'm a murderer,_ she confessed, refusing to say the words aloud. Or perhaps just unable. It broke her, this truth, and her legs gave way beneath her. She lay on her knees in the dirt, head in hands.

       "So am I." He almost sounded as broken as her.

      _I'm not sure that's comforting, Cole._

      "But I'm different now! New. More me. I help, not hurt. You can be more you, too. He would like that, rabbit. He would be happy."

      She peeked up from between her hands at him, a wistful smile tugging at her face."He would, wouldn't he?"

       He nodded and turned away. "You won't do it. Because of him, you won't."

       She wished she didn't know what he meant. She wished she were still innocent. She wished a great many things that day, so long ago... and every day since. _I always figured that, if I were t-to kill them..._ "It would be in his name."

       He shook his head. "Ugliness from beauty. It's backwards. It won't bring him back."

        _Nothing will_ , she lamented, the emptiness nagging at her.

       " _Gnashing, gnawing, biting. It hurts but I like it. Pain keeps me. Makes me real. The darkness feeds me and I feed it back._ They deserve to die, not you. You're good. That's why you can't hurt them back. Shouldn't. Wouldn't. Won't."

       Revas was up now, circling Cole's feet. He brushed against his legs like a great cat, then laid at his side. Cole laughed. _A sweet sound, like music and wind chimes. Birdsong in the morning dew._ "Traitor," she hissed jokingly at Revas, shooting him a mock frown.

       "He likes me!" Cole beamed-- stooping to pet the big, silly wolf --far too earnest and proud for Samara to remain unaffected. Her heart _ached_ for it. For him.

      _He's an excellent judge of character_ , her mind whispered. Never wrong.

      "I like him, too!" Cole called, and she was unable to suppress a smile so wonderfully wide it threatened to split her face. He saw it, caught her eyes, smiled back. "I'm helping!" he said, and it was practically a cheer.

        _Maker, he's-- you're --shit! Shut up shut up shut up. Oh look, Daisies. Aren't they pretty? I like flowers. Pretty, pretty flowers._

       He looked at her quizzically, blinking in confusion. "I like flowers, too?"

       "Yeah," she said nervously, fidgeting with her hands in the grass, "flowers are nice." But she was looking at him, still looking and-- _nope! Nope nope_.

      "Are you... mad?"

      And that did it. Her silly embarrassment died back to outright shame. She realized now that, above all else, she did _not_ want to cause him pain. It was a strange feeling. Good, but alien. Shaking her head repeatedly, she spoke, "No, no. I am not mad. I like you, Cole. Very much. I was embarrassed because I barely know you."

      "That's a funny reason to be embarrassed," he stated, but there was no judgment in his tone, "I like you too."

      She smiled, wide again. It was undoubtedly a rather different kind of _like_ , but she'd take it happily. "Thank you, Cole. It's been a long time since someone told me that."

      "There are different kinds of likes?" he asked, sounding surprised.

      "Hmm, yes, many." She did not elaborate.

      "Oh. I didn't know that?"

      She waved a hand dismissively. "It doesn't really matter. Like is like. It's all of it good, really. Different reasons, same result. It's not that important why someone cares," she rambled, feeling a bit uncomfortable even as she knew she was relaxing, "only that they do."

       "Oh," he said with quiet acceptance, as though her words were fact, as though she knew all. It made her feel guilty, uncomfortable. She didn't know anything, not really.

       He shifted his weight, fumbled with his hands, scowled. _"Petty, jealous, cruel. He pierced your heart, stole it away. The light went out._ So you pierced his heart with the little hunting dagger from your boot. Down to the hilt, again and again. Blood coated your face. You screamed until your throat cracked and burned, until you could scream no more. You were ill for a week, but sick much longer."

       She nodded, regret and excitement both grasping like claws at her neck. Feral. Bestial. She _hated_ that man. Sometimes she wished she could kill him again. Over and over. But it wouldn't help. Cruelty never did. "I'm still sick," she croaked, not liking the admission. He'd know it either way, but it still hurt to speak it. As though speaking it would make it real. _But it's already real_. "I didn't even know he _cared_ ," she bit the word out quick as may, hating the way it burnt on her tongue.

      "No." He shook his head roughly for emphasis, blonde fringe falling to obscure his eyes, " _You_ cared. Thomas cared. That man had forgotten how. _Too many hurts, love drowned in rage. Young, tender, trusting. Heart ripped away_... So he did it to you. It was wrong. And it wasn't your fault."

       She knew that, didn't she? Still, she could have... _no. Not really_. But the Keeper had warned--!

       "You tried. You cared and you tried. It's enough."

       Nodding against the pain in her everything, her eyes dropped to stare at Revas. He was curled up comfortably against Cole, his head resting against the man's scuffed boot. "I like animals," she stated abruptly, hands working through her matted hair, "They're simple. Kind. Easy to read and... their emotions make sense. Not like most people."

       "When you think of me, you call me a man. Why?"

        _Huh_? She blinked, searching for a clue to his meaning, in either his words or tone. Sarcasm? Anger? Resentment? She found nothing. _Because you are one?_ I mean... "You're simple and kind, too, Cole. I don't mean it that way."

       "I am? Thank you."

        _Don't thank me for a truth that should be glaring to you!_ "If no one has told you so before, it is unjust. A cruelty."

       He appeared deep in thought at that. "I have been called a man before. Not often. But I have."

      _Wait. What?_ "You're confusing, Cole."

       "I'm sorry."

  _Maker, what is this! Stop apologizing! It's my fault, not yours_. "I should have said that I do not understand. The blame rests on my shoulders, though it is hardly a great burden." She smiled up at him, considered standing. But, she decided, she liked the feathery feel of the grass on her legs, the sensation it provided. Being connected to more than just herself...

       "It tickles!" He giggled, quick and high in pitch.

       Blinking at him to clear her mind, it seemed that there ought to be nothing tickling _him_. He didn't just hear, then-- he could feel? "It does."

       He swallowed, looking again a fraction uncomfortable. "It's nice."

       She allowed herself to once more meet his eyes. Too easy, since he apparently had a staring problem. It didn't bother her. "Yes, Cole. It is." she grinned-- it hurt less, now. Her words rang true, speaking of more than just the grass and earth. But... She paused, grin and gaze falling, fading. _If you can feel..._ "Feel as we feel, I mean." _Doesn't it hurt? I-I'm so sorry, Cole. How can you shoulder such a burden?_

       "You worry," he said, sounding a touch lost and forlorn, "you shouldn't. I like to help. Live it. It doesn't hurt because it _helps_. When it's too much, I wash clean."

      _I wish I could._ But maybe not. She pondered the meaning of his words, truly considering them. Clearly they oughtn't be taken literally, which meant... she wasn't quite sure, but she thought it didn't really feel _good_. It felt sad, instead. Lost and empty, wrong and... more than anything, yes-- more even than not hurting him --she wanted to _help_. She wanted to help this man, with all her soul. The prospect was amusing; she couldn't even help herself. There was much work to be done, then.

       The din of the clan's milling about was growing closer. It was obnoxious, in that moment-- the intrusion offensive. She knew he noticed. She watched him watch.

       "I should go now," he said plainly, and Revas stood beside him with a whine.

       Samara didn't like it. Forsaking his company for theirs, it was _ugly_ , like abandoning the stars to gaze at a poor etching, instead. The work of some selfish child... a facsimile that could never approach the splendor of the original. Forsaking the divine for the mundane. Who would _choose_ that?

       " _His eyes are deep, fathomless. Rolling like the ocean, calm underneath. Bright as the sun, but under... far below shimmering seafoam it's dark as the abyss. Where is the light? Why can't it pierce through? I_ want _to..._ " he trailed off, feet nudging at a pebble in the weeds. " _So many ponds, rainwater... they're so shallow, I can see the bottom but there's nothing there. Maker, how can there be_ nothing _? There should be something, always something..._ "

       His fidgeting had worsened; he was shifting his weight from one foot to the next, bustling energy unsure of where to go. Swaying side to side, it was almost like dancing. For a strange moment she could _see_ it-- wanted to see it --him dancing carefree in the warm summer rain, drenched but smiling. Revas mimicking the motion at his side, jumping to stand on hind legs, falling into a spin. Playful nips and happy yelps, singing with life, joy-- _alive_. _Bustling energy now with purpose, always having somewhere to go..._ Could almost hear the laughter, she thought, and it was more beautiful than anything she could imagine. She was laughing, she realized. Out loud, like an idiot. But she didn't care. Not until she saw his gaze had fallen back to her, and something of its gravity had her stop, stare. "Do I make you uncomfortable?" she asked suddenly, painfully sincere.

       He scowled. "I'm sorry," he muttered-- and he was, she could _feel_ it, hated it, hated the hurt, "I have to go now."As he spoke, his eyes fluttered from her, towards the nearby camp, and back.

      This time, she caught her sigh, bridled the emotions. Shuffled her feet instead. Nodded. "Will I see you again?"

       A shrug, shifting weight, nervous eyes. Almost insecure. "I don't know."

      "I want to," she insisted. "I want to see you again."

      "Why?"

       "I like talking to you. It's nice." _I'm lonely._

       Sadness. She caught it easily, like a leaf twisting in the breeze. She was getting better at catching. "You won't remember," he said, barely audible.

      Her breath stayed, heart fractured. _No_. "I _want_ to remember," she said sternly, emphasis on each word. She meant it. Meant it too much, maybe. Didn't care.

      His head fell. "You still won't."

      She was silent. He was turning. She felt like she might die. Again. _No. No!_ No words. Caught in her throat. _Shit_! She forced it, then. A croak like one might force in the Beyond, when the dream-self loses its voice to quivering. "Cole!" she called, loud and hoarse. He paused, head tilted minutely in her direction. "Come find me," she near-growled, voice low and raspy, dangerously serious, sincere. "If you're still... still _you_ , still new," she whispered, though the darkness in her knew she didn't mean it, tasted her desperation like a tangible thing-- a rotten fruit to be plucked --knew she wanted him there no matter what, him or otherwise, knew it could twist her loyalty to something fierce and deadly, careless and foolish, "Come. Find. Me."

      Proud for her speech-- that she hadn't failed, even in her wavering, her weakness --her eyes closed. She felt tired. When she opened them again, he was gone. She sighed, turned, sighed again.

     A hunter stood before her. She hadn't seen him coming, didn't care. "Did you see--" she stopped herself. What did she care what he had seen, this petulant child whose name she would not grant the honor of remembrance? In truth, she hoped he didn't see. Whether to hoard this blessing for herself, or to protect the memory-- Cole himself --from this, this ugly _thing_ , she did not know.

     "See what, _len'alas lath'din_? I see only a filthy cur before me, and her little wolf. No doubt come to beg scraps of our Keeper. In her foolhardy benevolence, I am sure she will oblige. Go, _seth'lin_. Win your leftovers by scrambling in the mud. I look forward to seeing you beg."

With that, he brushed roughly past her shoulder. Revas bristled at her side. Oddly, she felt disconnected. All she could think was, _how will your desire be granted if you aren't here to see it?_ The old hate... she _remembered_ , but it did not touch her. _Why_? Her heart leapt, eyes closed. _Cole_! her mind screeched, terrified. _Do not forget. Do not forget him. Remember Cole. Remember._

       As she made her way the short distance to the camp, his name became a chant in her mind. A prayer. _Cole. Cole. Remember. Maker, please. Let me remember._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> Fen'harel - The Dread Wolf. God of the elven pantheon, considered treacherous by many
> 
> Len'alas lath'din - dirty child that no one loves
> 
> Seth'lin - thin blood


	4. The Long Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins.
> 
> Information on Samara's Vallaslin will occur in a later flashback.

_"Friend, what I want’s to trade_

_this horse of mine for your house here._

_This saddle of mine for your mirror,_

_this knife of mine for your blanket._

 

_Friend, I come bleeding, see,_

_from the mountain pass of Cabra.”_

 

_“I would if I could, young man;_

_I’d have taken you up already._

_But I’m not myself any longer,_

_nor my house my home any more.”_

_\-- Federico Garcia Lorca, Sleepwalker's_ _Ballad_

       "When the People began The Long Walk, it was out of necessity. Halamshiral waited in the distance, a light of hope and promise upon the hillside." Keeper Deshanna paused, her eyes resting firmly upon Samara's, full of meaning.

       Revas was curled in the corner, chewing at a Halla bone. Samara did not know if Halamshiral was built upon a hillside, or if the words were meant as metaphor; conveying an idealism mighty and loft, once glowing brightly above the grasping reach of lesser men. She supposed it did not matter; it was the same, either way.

       Samara nodded, and the Keeper broke eye contact to gaze into the crackling fire light by which she sat. "No one shoulders such a burden without great purpose," she continued, enunciating carefully, "and even so, it takes its toll. Many were lost to the journey. To the wilds, starvation, exhaustion... murder."

       Samara froze at the word-- so loud above the rest it seemed --but only for a moment. She took a deep breath, seeking catharsis, distraction. "Was it worth it?" she asked, voice small, "So many were lost. Yet, so too, in time, was Halamshiral."

       The Keeper shrugged, still looking into the fire. "Who can say." Her tone was firm but neutral, the edges somehow soft besides. "All things are lost to time. Such is the nature of this world. Time may claim all, but I am certain the People enjoyed their brief respite in Halamshiral. Even so, if it had not been granted us, a great deal of the history reclaimed therein would be lost. They suffered for the knowledge we bear. We owe them a great debt."

       Deshanna turned from the fire, eyes locking onto Samara with a terrifying, boring intensity. What she spoke, then, Samara could not have expected. "And I would be further indebted to you, _da'len_ , if you would grant it."

       " _What_?" Samara asked, flustered. Forgetting herself. "Forgive me. What is my Keeper's command?"

       Deshanna laughed gently, affection pulling at the corners of her eyes. "Oh, my child. Are we not beyond such pleasantries?" Her laughter died quickly, into the flames and smoke of the fire's heat. Smile falling, weight in the gaze that was suddenly clouded, elsewhere. "You would have been my First, you know," she whispered huskily, dreamily, "had you been born with magic."

       "I.." What? Samara's eyes widened, mouth dropped open unbecomingly.

       "Do not look so surprised," the Keeper chuckled, waving a hand through the smoke, "You are favored, perhaps to all our detriments."

       "They would not have had it," Samara murmured sadly.

        Deshanna grimaced, or smirked, or both. "Am I not Keeper, _da'len_? Is my word not law? They would honor my proclamation, or they would depart from us in exile and shame."

       "Then I am glad I was not born with such a gift," Samara said through a sad smile, "for I would not be the cause of such strife."

       "You were born with many others, _da'len_. And I fear I have need of them now."

        Samara nodded, stealing herself. "What would you have of me?" The sadness was palpable, heavy in the air. _The Keeper should not feel such guilt,_ she thought, _to ask for that service already freely given._

       "The times are changing, _da'len_. So, too, must we. The humans are stirring. Unrest travels on the wind. A war is coming to them, I fear. We must know what this means."

       "What is this to the Dalish?" Samara asked with curiosity, no resentment coloring her tone. Neither party missed that she had not said _us_.

       Deshanna sighed, crossing her slim legs at the ankle. "The ramifications for all may be grave indeed," she stated, expression thoughtful, "the People included. A meeting of great import approaches, _da'len_. I would have your services as a spy. I would beg you begin a Long Walk of your own."

       Samara nodded somberly. "As you say, my Keeper," she replied, striving to keep her voice level. Calm. "But ere I depart on your errand," she added nervously, hands grasped tightly in her lap, "I would beg a favor of you, though it is not my place to do so."

       "Speak on. If it is in my power, I shall grant it."

        Samara's nervousness grew. She struggled against the fidgeting. Her heart pounded in her chest. Sacrilege, a voice whispered in her mind, but it did not feel her own. " _Vallaslin_ ," she whispered, voice quavering in the small space. Her hands traced the edges of her markings, the blood writing staining her face in homage to Andruil, the dead god of the hunt. "Teach me the writing of a word in our tongue. Mark it upon my breast. Above my heart."

       Deshanna was staring, eyes narrowed. A scowl heavy on her lips beneath furrowed brow. "What is its meaning?" she asked warily.

      "I..." Samara wavered, but did not falter. "I can't any longer recall," she admitted shamefacedly, "but it is important. Above all words in all tongues known and forgotten, before all knowledge lost to the ages, it is _important_ , I promise you. Do this, and all you ask of me shall be done. Anything and all."

      Deshanna was frowning deeply into the fire. For a long while, she said nothing, and Samara was well and truly afraid. She could not bear this feeling. The unknown was a terror she rarely abided. Had that come across as command, rather than request? _Blackmail_ , even? She regretted her words already, but found she hadn't the strength or will to recall them from the air. They perched between them, she felt, heavy and tangible and somehow _growing_.

      Finally, finally, Deshanna turned to her, a devious smirk upon her face the likes of which Samara had never seen on the stoic Keeper. " _No one_ must know," her Keeper whispered, and Samara felt a great weight lifted from her all at once.

       She nodded in tacit agreement.

* * *

       Samara awoke to a grumbling stomach, stirred by the scent of something lovely cooking on the fire. She was starved, she realized. Long used to ignoring such physical tugging, she was duly surprised. More than that, though, her breast _ached_. It was not a good feeling and yet... it was.

       Revas whimpered softly, his head in her lap, his nose nuzzling against her thigh. A smile broke upon her face as she leaned to plant a kiss to his forehead, fingers ruffling through the fur of his back. "Good morning, _ma'vhenan_ ," she grumbled huskily, voice still heavy from sleep. "It is good to be with you. _Ma'arlath_." He turned to lick her hand, his face buried beneath her palm. She giggled in response, stroking him, loving him, reveling in his nearness. Glad to not be alone. She owed him much.

       "I suppose it's time to awaken, hmm," she mumbled into his fur, her cheek now leaning upon his neck, "there is much to be done this day. We haven't time to linger." Her palm tapped lightly against his rump, causing him to stand into a long, low stretch. She giggled happily at the motion, rising into a stretch of her own, a yawn fighting to brim on her lips.

       They made their way to the center of camp, attempting to force their leisurely pace into something more accommodating of their limited time. Samara scarfed down a chunk of bread as quickly as she could, pausing as the crumbles began to desiccate her parched mouth further. A cough was building in her itchy throat when a hand came roughly down on her shoulder, squeezing too tight.

       She coughed in surprise, bread crumbs flying from lips to ground. Revas nosed about the soil, lapping them up greedily. She made a mental note to stock up on meat for the journey, paying the hand little mind as she wiped the remaining crumbs from her mouth. Still struggling to regain her composure, she chanced a glance behind. She frowned, and Revas froze. Apparently he, too, had just recognized the hunter from earlier. With a sigh she tried to gently bat away his hand, but it seized her at the wrist.

       Her eyes met his from beneath her brow, sharp and hungry and all too threatening. A low growl was rolling from Revas' throat, and Samara had to fight to keep herself from echoing it. Her free hand rose to the hunter's elbow in a dark parody of greeting; she sought leverage in the event things turned sour, even as she thought of snapping the offending limb with little more cause than this. _You were one of them, weren't you?_ her mind spat, swirling with rage, _Pig. Coward. Monster! You deserve to be facedown in the mud, not--!_ She caught herself. Tilted her head. Smirked. "Good 'morrow," she said only, eyes not leaving his.

       He scoffed. Sought to free his arm, remove his grip. She held it a beat longer, smirk growing, before loosing him from her with more force than necessary. She snorted as he stumbled slightly, watched him recover his pride. "It will be good to have you gone, _seth'lin_ ," he grumbled, furtively rubbing at his arm, "but know this. She sends you on this fool's errand only because she wishes you apart from us as much as the next."

       "Of _course_ ," she hissed, inclining her head in a modest-- mocking --bow. The sneer on her lips shifted into something more regal, though no less menacing. She took her leave of him without another word, did not look back. Revas trotted at her side.

       Just beyond the clan's purview, Samara stopped. Trembling-- furious --her hands balled into fists, she made to strike the nearest tree. Mid-strike, she froze. Hands fell back to her side. Couldn't very well enact the Keeper's will with a broken hand, could she? She felt helpless, powerless. Unable even to vent her frustrations without repercussions too grave, for the sake of wisdom, honor, _whatever_. The rage wanted to turn to tears at her resistance, but she would not have that, either. The shaking threatened to overtake her. Her right hand found its way to her breast, then. Fell above her heart as if on instinct. She hadn't the faintest why, but the rage fled at the gesture. The sorrow faded, the shaking ceased. Her fingers caressed the newly tender skin hidden beneath her clothing, traced the marks that burned there. A smile graced her lips. She shook her head, laughed, and headed back to camp, ready to prepare for their journey.

* * *

 

       Her bags were packed. She was fully armed. They had supplies enough for the journey, and Revas was pacing nervously at her side. All was set, it seemed. She knew not the mode of her transportation, but had no doubt it was arranged. The Keeper had seen to it, surely. All that remained was to seek her out.

       Samara nodded at the great wolf worrying beside her, hoped to find enough peace within to reassure him. "Calm, Revas," she whispered, stooping by his side. He nuzzled her hand with a whine, muzzle pushing insistently. "All will be well, _ma'vhenan_. Be calm."

       She stood quickly, made to go to her Keeper. But the woman had already sought her out: greeted her in the middle of camp with a tender embrace. In the sight of all. Samara stiffened briefly, gasped. Then she eagerly returned the gesture, her height granting her a strange sense of discomfort; she had known herself tall for an elf, certainly, but few and far between were the times this discrepancy made itself evident in her daily life. She did not know what to do with her body, with her hands. She slumped awkwardly against the Keeper, trying to lessen the distance between them. One hand fell on the woman's shoulder, the other to the back of her head. _Maker_ , she had nearly patted her head, as one would a child! The hug ended quickly as Keeper Deshanna pulled away to gaze at her charge, eyes full of affection. The Keeper's left hand remained upon Samara's shoulder, while her right cupped the young elf's cheek.

       "I am so proud of you, _da'len_ ," she announced loudly, voice firm. Her posture remained erect and noble, even as her hands fell back to her sides. Restrained sorrow was etched upon her kind face. "What you do now, you do for the People. Where you go, you will face many hardships. I thank you for your sacrifice. The People--" she gestured towards the surrounding elves with a sternly commanding face, "thank you. Your gift will not be forgotten. Go, child, with my hart."

       Samara blinked her surprise, nodded a simple bow, "And stay with mine."

       Keeper Deshanna laughed softly, a smirk playing at her lips with a hint of the mischief from last night visible. "No, _da'len_. You have had that always. My heart goes with you, bidden or otherwise. No, I would have you go with my _hart_ ," she emphasized, still amused, an arm splayed towards the woods behind her in a sweeping gesture, "Alas'nehn! _Garas_!"

       A great white hart leapt from the woods at her command-- amidst many an elven murmuring --stopping before Samara with a thunderous roar of hooves. The massive beast lowered its head to nudge at Samara's shoulder, snuffling and pawing at the soil as he did so. "I couldn't--" Samara began, but was interrupted swiftly by her Keeper's words.

       "Would you defy your Keeper's command?" she asked in a stern tone, still edged with humor.

        Samara shook her bowed head. " _Ma nuvenin_ , my Keeper."

       "Good," Keeper Deshanna chuckled, "My First shall escort you to the borders of Kirkwall. From there, the journey is your own-- though your passage has been arranged. _Dareth shiral, ma'len_."

       " _Ma serannas, hahren._ "

* * *

 

       Samara offered a parting glance to the world she had known, her heart twinged with grief over the knowledge that she might never again lay eyes on it-- on the little tree that grew from Thomas' grave; the woods in which they shared their first kiss, wherein they later found Revas; the clearing in which she had first fired a bow, young and eager... on the face of the Keeper who had been as a mother to her.

       With a heartfelt sigh, she patted Alas'nehn's wide neck, gave Revas a grin where he waited below. "The world awaits," she whispered to him, smile falling, "our Long Walk has begun." And with that, they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my preferred translation of Sleepwalker's Ballad, but the best I could find atm.
> 
> Translation notes:
> 
> Ma'arlath - I love you
> 
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish
> 
> Dareth shiral - farewell
> 
> Ma'len - my child
> 
> Ma serannas - my thanks
> 
> Hahren - elder; a term of respect for one of higher station. A specific office of leadership held by a city elf (though not among the Dalish)


	5. Better the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara reaches the Conclave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squee! My first comments! And kudos! I feel an overwhelmingly child-like thrill at it all. I love you guys!
> 
> Because of this, I'm posting another chapter. I'm barely better than Samara herself at this restraint business; it took all I had to not post everything I'd written straight away. Things are happening rather faster now, it seems (so this, and following chapters, are likely to be shorter). I expect that to more or less be the case until Cole's return to the story.

_"I sit beside the fire and think_

_Of how the world will be_

_When winter comes without a spring_

_That I shall ever see._

 

_For still there are so many things_

_That I have never seen_

_In every wood in every spring_

_There is a different green._

_I sit beside the fire and think_

_Of people long ago_

_And people that will see a world_

_That I shall never know._

 

_But all the while I sit and think_

_Of times there were before_

_I listen for returning feet_

_And voices at the door."_

_\-- J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the_ _Rings_

       The Conclave was immense; towering and majestic. The structure loomed like a mountain above insects, giving the impression of impenetrability and timelessness. But also, it gleamed with a haughty superiority that rankled, tugging at Samara's dignity-- composure --like a fumbling youth with a maiden's corselette, intent on the unraveling. Samara had no wish to be unraveled. She had seen the silly garments on pretty ladies-in-waiting and chamber maids alike; for beauty, grace, propriety, Thomas had said. Crushing a woman's breasts on a daily basis hardly seemed _proper_ to her.

       This was no different. It was beautiful, yes, this massive thing hewn of stone and Maker-knows-what, but it was also distinctly unnatural. Awkward, imposing. That was a good word for it: imposing. Its presence infringed upon the sanctity of self that ought to be granted all the Maker's children. It took from them-- from her --with its armor and its splendor and all their glorious trappings. A proper ruler should have no need for taking, she thought. And this building, it _reeked_ of rule. Whose rule, in truth, she knew not.

       Better the forest, wild and free, no thing taken from another that was not required of it. Better the forest, with its rolling hills and roaring streams, pendulous lichen and dense moss, the birdsong and the sweet morning dew... the forest provided. The forest sustained. In the forest, she felt far greater than herself: not merely one, but many. Not alone, never truly. Here, Samara felt herself lessened. Dwarfed. Lost.

       Wild beasts weren't allowed in the Conclave, they'd said. No monsters in here, clearly. It's a damned wonder they'd let _her_ pass. Samara groaned, ruffling a hand through her auburn hair. Perhaps it needed a trim; she couldn't help but eye the humans as they passed, so clean and put together, everything in its right place or not there at all. She wasn't particularly accustomed to feelings of inferiority, but she supposed that's what this was. When she was home-- if she could call it that; it certainly felt more home than here --near all matters were weighed in terms of practicality. Her hair was untamed because it need not be. It was not shorn close to the scalp, as such required regular maintenance. So long as the mass of it was free of her face, did not impede in battle or the hunt, it was largely irrelevant. Or was that just her? She thought back to girls of the clan-- none of which she engaged in superfluous conversation, lest they turn on her for her slights --some half-shorn, some with flowing hair well-tended, others with stunningly intricate plaits... just her, then. Curses. Grabbing at a bunch of it from over her shoulder, she allowed the strands to fall in loose waves over her knuckles. Her thumb ran over the frayed ends, curious, exploring. The main clump folded back over her arm, long and rough. With a glance askance at the passersby, she raked her hand harshly through the unkempt clump, then the rest of it. She tossed it back where it belonged, then smoothed over the top-- _shite_ , her plaits needed tending. Slinking into a darkened corner, she loosed and reset the wayward things, meant to keep her eyes free and clear from distraction. With a sigh-- a bad habit that needed breaking since youth, she realized, but couldn't quite be arsed --she hitched the two behind her head, let them fall loosely down to her shoulder blades, and made to rejoin the assembly that trailed ever onwards to the Conclave's heart.

       As she merged with the large group making its way up, her mind roved back to Revas and Alas'nehn, whom she'd turned loose in the nearest woods she could find. Revas was given instruction to guard the majestic hart, and she had every faith he would do so. No harm would come to Alas while either of them yet breathed; a gift of the Keeper, and the Maker, was in their charge. They would gladly fight to the last for him. Not that Alas was himself helpless-- perish the thought! That willful creature had seen many a battle in his day. Not just seen, but _fought_. Imagine an animal like that, warworn and wise, trussed up in a stable of all things, like some broken little draft horse! Samara had nearly laughed at the servant's daft instruction. Thankfully, she had remembered her manners-- mostly --and politely declined. She had lost time there, though, and would do well to hurry.

       Quickening her pace, Samara reached the interior of the structure without much trouble. Her ill ease and slight dislike aside, the place was fascinating. A little time for inspection could be afforded, surely. She stopped often to admire the little things, quick as may: a goblet here, a painting there. Then there was this vase, those impossibly colored flowers... and when Samara looked up, she was alone. _Shit! Shit! Shit in a bucket! By the thrice-damned Dread Wolf, where_ am _I?_

       Samara had never gotten truly lost before, not in the forest. _But this_ isn't _the bloody forest, and I_ am _bloody lost._ Long corridors seemed to stretch in every direction, lined with closed doors. So, Samara found herself doing the only sensible thing: wandering like a mangy cur in search of food. She checked behind doors, looking for an attendant to set her straight. Or anyone, at this point. She found storerooms and empty halls instead. That's when she heard it: voices! _Oh, Maker be praised, perhaps the Keeper_ didn't _err in sending me, of all the elves in all the forests..._ And that was the last thought Samara would recall.


	6. Blood Like Honey - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I've decided to break up my chapters so that I can post smaller chunks more regularly. It seems both easier and more beneficial.
> 
> Feedback welcomed!
> 
> Translation notes:
> 
> Durgen'len - children of the stone (dwarves). I believe the singular should actually be Durg'len-- can anyone confirm this? Or even agree, hehe. It's just that the plural of child I do not know-- lenen seems a bit awkward? I always read durgen'len as child of the stones, and removing that plural would just make it child of the stone. But I keep seeing the term used as a plural. I'm quite confused!
> 
> Lethallan/lethallin - a gender-based, familiar term, generally used among fellow elves. Something like clansman/woman. Samara mostly uses it-- as with most things she says to Solas/anyone at present --sarcastically.

_I was angry with my friend;_

_I told my wrath, my wrath did end._

_I was angry with my_ _foe:_

_I told it not, my wrath did grow._

 

_And I water'd it in fears,_

_Night and morning with my tears:_

_And I sunned it with smiles,_

_And with soft deceitful wiles._

_\-- William Blake, A Poison Tree_

       When Samara awoke, it was to a piercing headache and the implacable knowledge that something was very, _very_ wrong. A gap split her memory, the thoughts stuttering in her mind from _known_ to nothing. Fade to black. Nothing there. That alone was terrifying. When she turned 'round to catch her bearings, the terror only grew. Where were her weapons, her memories-- _Maker! Where is Revas?_ She didn't have time to figure it out. Those _things_ were coming. They looked like massive, ravening spiders, all spindly chitin and dripping fangs, but they didn't _feel_ like any spider she knew. She ran. As fast as her crumpled legs would carry her, she ran towards the light, towards-- _Andraste's Tears! Is this? Am I--?_ Her quavering arm reached out-- farther, farther --and then she was engulfed in light. Warm and pure, like sunshine on the grass... she knew only light.

 

* * *

__

       What happened next was a blur. Where once was light, now all was dark, gray, fractured. She was in bondage. Pain shot through her face, a din filled her ears, her hand ached like nothing... _what?_ Words. Those were words. She got the impression she was meant to reply. How could she reply when she hadn't heard...?

       " _Where_ is the Most Holy?" a voice rang out, echoing in what sounded like a small room. The voice was angry. Understatement. It was _furious_. It was vaguely feminine, the accent strange, some muted cross between Antivan and Orlesian...? Not a Marcher. Not Fereldan.

        _Where am I..._ Samara blinked furiously, straining to clear the tears and dust from her eyes. Her head was swimming. The room, as it came slowly into view, was spinning wildly. Samara grabbed at her throbbing head as much as the chains would allow. The sensations were overwhelming. She felt sick to her stomach.

       Time passed. Words flowed from her thickly clinging tongue. They were her own, she knew, but felt none of it. Circumstances changed, but did not change. Chains gave way to freedom, or its passing semblance. Movement slank in her periphery, beyond this Seeker's ken. She looked away, gave no hint of the noticing. Eyes buzzed like hornets, ears thrummed red with silence, blood drizzled like coagulating honey in her veins. Reality felt _real_ no more. When her hand was brought to the rift, time slowed to a standstill. Sand filled the cracks.

       "Andraste's tits," she murmured, hand flickering immediately to her mouth, shocked by her blasphemy. "Forgive me."

       Varric-- the funny little _Durgen'len_ with hair in odd places--laughed. "That's good, kid! Don't apologize. It means you're _processing_ this shit."

       Samara shook her head, frowned. "I was not apologizing to _you_ , child of the stone." The dwarf mouthed an extended 'okay,' with eyes widened, shoulders shrugged. Turned from her. Shook his head.

       Movement again, far in the distance. The others didn't seem to catch it. Samara smiled to herself, signaled subtly with her hand, stared at the snow beneath her feet. Took a breath. It felt like the first of her life.

       "What causes you to smile, _lethallan_ , at so trying a time? Surely you are not glad for the world's ending?" It was Solas. The bald elf.

        _Pride_. Samara restrained a snort, fought the stiffening in her limbs. Shrugged her shoulders instead. _And is the world so grand? So deserving of preservation?_ "I am alive, _lethallin_. At present, it is enough."


	7. Blood Like Honey - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing the Temple Rift.
> 
> Dun dun DUUUUN! Lewl. Imagine that in the voice of the little sloth from The Croods, if you will. And I suggest you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting again, why not? I haven't stopped writing, so I may as well!

       Samara heard the rift-words, echoing like the shatter of crystal through her soul. Her own voice, flooding her ears. Memory like fire, cleansing and pure. Scorching. Bitter and destructive. Her hand raised to the scarred Veil, tremulous and unsure. She felt the answering pulse of energy resound throughout her entire being.

       Before her was summoned a massive demon of pride, towering above the scarred remnants of the Temple, tall as a tree. She stood, a moment, breath held. Watching. The demon watched back, black eyes on her. Only her.

       "What a lovely little body you wear," it spoke, voice a deep, purring rumble, "Come with me now, and it _might_ not be broken."

       Samara's eyes narrowed, breath escaping in a snorted laugh, "Cease your chittering, demon. I do not consort with your wretched kind." All eyes were on her, but she did not move. Did not stir. _I_ am _consorting, right now_.

       "Oh, what folly Pride has wrought," the demon laughed, vicious, mocking, cruel, "that in subjugating has been subsumed! The blood of my fallen brethren seeps through the Veil like tears. I will water the soil, ashes to fire, to make things red, again, and new!"

       "You'll have to kill me, first," Samara growled, bow drawn, lips curled, "if you _can_."

       "That, my dear," the fell beast grinned, "is precisely the idea."

       The battle that ensued was long and protracted. Almost... tedious, really. She dodged and feinted and danced about, flitted to and fro, here and there-- still tired, yes, but never really drawing upon her limited reserves. Never was there need, nor was her heart in the effort. A strange well of disappointment pooled and tickled at the back of her mind. She pushed it away; a deathly battle was _hardly_ to be desired.

       It was over too soon, and not soon enough. Something about the encounter rankled just the tiniest twinge; stank of sulfur and stung like smoke. Perhaps that is simply the way of demons. Her heart, though, was far fled from the scene, her mind clouded, distanced; aloof.

       "I will see you again," the demon hissed as it fell to the earth, limbs quivering.

       "I doubt it," Samara stated under her breath, free of inflection, one final arrow finding its mark. The demon collapsed fully, and then its essence was no more. The fire was out, the smoke cleared. Samara had never fought a demon before today, never had the chance. She noted with some consternation that she felt... nothing.

 

* * *

 

       Throughout the trek back to Haven, she reciprocated their gestures, glance for glance, words for words. No more was felt in her. There was no desire for more. Her marred hand found its way to her breast, the first time since the Conclave. She shivered. She smiled. _Perhaps peace may yet be attained, even so._

       The movement continued at the forest's edge, charred and battered though it was. Samara ambled, careful to seem slow, nonchalant. Eventually she was between it and her companions. Right hand concealed at her side, she gave the silent command to follow, but hold. Solas cast glances at her routinely. She tried not to frown.

       "You do not trust us, _lethallan_ ," he said finally. Breaking the silence to her dismay.

       "I am your prisoner," she bit out.

       He offered no response.

       Several minutes later, he was back at her side. She was growing annoyed by his incessant meddling.

       "No harm will come to them," he stated softly, eyes on the treeline.

       "We shall see," she answered darkly. Her gaze rest opposite his; on the companions that led their way. She was brooding behind dull eyes.

       Solas left her to it, then, a slight scowl on his lips.


	8. Blood Like Honey - pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snarking at Solas, mostly!
> 
> Revas and Alas rejoin Samara.

       That cursed elf found her the next morn, after the meeting with the advisors and that false Chantry dog. _No true servant of the Maker chases death so gladly,_ she mused, _with pricked ears and wagging tail._ The hypocrisy was not lost on her. It burned ferociously at her heart. At least now she was... not free, but freer. At least now she had purpose.

       "You would have words with me, _hahren_?" she asked lightly, a carefree lilt to her tone. Disingenuous.

       "Do not mock me, child," he stated, voice grave, "for I would lessen your burden."

       " _Lessen_ , indeed, serrah. Your thoughts are not lost on me. You despise the People. It is writ plain in your every word and deed."

       "And you, _da'len_? What are your thoughts on the Dalish?"

       Samara frowned, shifted her weight across the boulder upon which she sat cross legged. "They are what they are," she whispered, feeling unsure, "as are we all." With a thoughtful tilt of her head, she added, "They are not all bad."

       "Nor are they all good," he nodded.

       "None are."

       He edged closer to her, then, voice grown softer at the edges. "Call them to you, child. The cold bites. The wind stings. Shelter and sustenance are theirs, if you would but grant it."

       She sighed, shoulders falling a fraction. "We are children of the wilds, Solas. It is not the woods that trouble me."

       "They should. These are dire times; not even the woods can be considered safe."

       "And if I place my trust in you and yours, at your insistence? Can you decide when and where the hammer falls?"

       Solas frowned. "They are not _mine_ , _da'len_ , yet I have trusted them with my life all the same. As yet, my life remains. We are each of us burdened with the fate of the world. For what greater assurance would you ask?"

       "As you say, _hahren_ ," she growled with a wave of her glowing hand, "on your head be it, as, so, on mine." She inclined her head minutely towards the forest, sighed, scowled. " _Garas_!" she finally called, fear gnawing at her heart.

 

* * *

 

       That night was her first spent in warmth-- true warmth --since the Conclave. Perhaps she could not begrudge Solas his gift.

       Revas sighed contentedly, his head rested upon her belly, strong and firm. Her hand carded through his fur, spinning, tickling loose circles across his skin. It had been uncomfortable-- to say the last --to trust the men so with her heart. There had been murmurings, shouts and confusion, but no blades were drawn. _Maker be praised._ The hammer did not fall.

       Alas was in the stables, to her slight dismay. But at least he was warmer, safer. Well fed. _Times are changing_ , she reminded herself, _and so, too, must we._ Concessions must be made. Sacrifices were to be expected. The world was ending, after all. 

        _The Herald of Andraste..._ a title with which she could live, she thought. But thinking does not make it so. "Time will tell," she murmured into the crook of Revas' neck, inhaling the scent of conifers and damp earth. There was rejuvenation in the smell, the touch.

       The featherbed and furs, however, were another matter. Not bad, per se, but utterly new. It was all so very... soft. She was unsure what to make of it, this softness, whether it was good or bad or something in between. A part of her longed for a tree at her back, the solidity of the soil beneath her, anchoring her to the world, the forest, the creatures... another part of her thought that the soil, with all its connectivity, never once cradled her so. Like a mother's embrace, she imagined-- but then what would she know of such things as that? 

       "I think too much, _ma'vhenan_ ," she chuckled hoarsely, her head falling into the pillows with a plop. Her arm snaked around the hoary wolf's shoulders. Her eyes closed. That night, Samara reclaimed a measure of peace.


	9. Favor - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Persistent Solas is persistent.

_Oh sweet it was to leave them then,_

_And sweeter not to see,_

_And sweetest of all to walk alone_

_Beside the encroaching sea,_

_The sea that soon should drown them all,_

_That never yet drowned me._

_\-- Stevie Smith, Our Bog is_ _Dood_

       Samara was in the war room with her advisors, arms extended fully, palms flat on the table. With each bickering breath they exerted, her weight rested there more. She hated these thrice-cursed meetings, they way they wore upon her. With each passing moment the mark upon her hand grew heavier, while the mark on her breast seemed as though it might disappear. It shocked and dimmed her, to see the way the squabbles continued, even in the face of the world's bloody end. More the better, then.

       "Let it end!" she growled, voice booming in the confined quarters. All eyes turned to her, puzzled, concerned. "The argument," she amended, voice quietening, "is over. We go to the Templars. Let them aid us as they will." She would brook no dissent here, and it seemed that, to their credit, all members of her circle knew as much.

       Cullen, for his part, looked pleased. It irked her. The choice had been an arbitrary one and, even so, was hardly intended to curry favor among either party. Politics be damned.

       "We leave at dawn," she added curtly as she made her exit, fingers of her marked hand raised and wiggling beside her head, "see that you are prepared."

 

* * *

 

       "Solas," she stated neutrally, fighting an eye roll. She was reclined against the wooden frame of her quarters, face beneath the awning, legs in the snow. "To what do I owe the honor." It wasn't a question. It wasn't an honor, either.

       The older elf merely chuckled, seemingly incapable of taking a hint. "What part of my presence offends you, _da'len_?"

       "The part in which you are present, hahren," she replied with a grin. "Forgive me-- or don't. I find most company disagreeable of late."

       "Oh? And who was the lucky soul that last appealed to your sensibilities, my lady Herald?"

       Samara paused, drew in a fraction, shook her head. "Fair point. This is the most company I've had in... well, since I was a child. I fear the memories have fled me."

       "I am sorry to hear that. Still, it is not fitting that you carry this burden alone."

       She shrugged. "If there is another way, I know it not. Solas..."

       "Hmm?"

       "Would you trim my hair?"

       That took him by surprise. "Excuse me?" he asked, blinking slowly.

       An underwhelming reaction, but she found herself pleased regardless. "I have never done it myself," she admitted, "I never had the need. But I find myself... curious."

       "You have servants, do you not?"

       "I am uncomfortable with the concept of servitude. And Revas, for all his many assets, is not skilled with shears."

       "So," he ventured, brow raised and lip upturned into the subtlest smirk, "you thought to ask me?"

       "Indeed!" she chortled uproariously, head smacking against the parched wood. When she could again breathe, she gestured loosely towards his head, "What can I say? You struck me as the elf for the job. Aah... you're..." She sighed, grimaced. "You're the only one who will speak to me in private."

       "It is not as though you give them much cause, _da'len_."

       "I am aware. In any case, it would seem they lack your dogged insistence."

        He smirked again, chuckled to himself. "So it goes."

       "Mm. Will you do it?"

        A nod. "On your head be it, _lethallan_."

       "You're more amusing than you let on, Solas."

       "Am I Solas, now? Your _hahren_ no longer? I'd have offered my services sooner, had I known. But... I am glad to hear it, all the same."

       She inclined her head, offered a mock scowl. "Do not push your luck."


	10. Favor - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aheh, an entire chapter dedicated to Solas cutting Samara's hair. What have I done.

       The teasing of the comb tingled at her scalp, pleasant and calming. The snip of the shears, too, served only to relax her. Samara was taken aback by the ease with which trust came; she had assumed she would remain forever guarded against the world.

       "Have you never seen a comb, _da'len_?" Solas chided, fingers and comb working against a particularly stubborn knot.

       "Samara," she whispered, surprised at herself.

       "Hmm?"

       "Call me Samara. It is, after all, my name. I have _seen_ combs, yes. I've simply never had the occasion to indulge."

       "And now, Samara? What has changed your opinion of them?"

       "The world is ending, Solas. I see no harm in taking my petty indulgences as they come."

       "Proper hygiene hardly seems a worthy _indulgence_ , Samara. If that is your only motivation, I find myself both saddened and amused."

        _Maker, he's going to abuse my name now, isn't he? Serves me right, I suppose._ "I... If I am to be a member of this," _this what? Cause? War? World?_ "this alliance, I may as well look the part. The humans, at Kirkwall, the Conclave, here. They are not so harsh in appearance."

       "Nor in disposition, but that hardly seemed to give you pause." He chuckled softly, and she shook her head, _tsk'ing._ "Hold _still_ , child! You will regret the outcome if you continue fidgeting," he reprimanded, pulling away from her, "I did not expect self-consciousness of you, Samara. It is a construct of lesser minds."

       "I'm pleased you think so _highly_ of my mind, but the body should not be forgotten entirely, hm? It had... simply not occurred to me before I ventured out of the forest. To notice it, that is. I did not own a mirror. I did not own much. I neither saw myself reflected in the eyes of others. But I am not so blind as to miss the partiality favored those who take care with word, look, and deed."

       "And you desire this, then? To be favored?"

       "In truth, I do not know."

       "Hm." He was back to cutting, then, clipping away at errant strands and frayed tips. "Have you never been favored?"

       "Ere I left the Marches, my Keeper confessed her affection for me. It was unexpected. But not," she breathed, rehashed memories bringing a warmth to her skin, "unwelcome. It is... good. To be cared for."

       "That it is," he nodded, pausing to offer a hand mirror. "Here?" he queried, indicating the hair that draped along either side of her face.

       "If you wish-- I trust in your judgment."

       Solas placed the mirror to the side and began cutting in sections shorter than the rest. "You did not know of her feelings, before she spoke of them?"

       "I did not. Our Keeper is fair, kind. If anything, I supposed she pitied the poor orphan child that I was."

       "Ah. You are an orphan. I am sorry for your loss."

       "I am, or am assumed as such. When the Keeper acquired me, I was young. Five or six, perhaps. I had come with a caravan from south Fereldan-- from near the Korcari Wilds, they say. I was a slave. They called me orphan, so it was taken as truth. My ears were," she frowned, touching them subconsciously, "as they are now. I have no memory of my past. The loss is forgotten by me."

       "The Keeper acquired you, you say? By what means?"

       Samara smiled softly, affection bringing a subtle sheen to her eyes. "She paid."

       Solas cleared his throat, averted his gaze. A moment of silence passed between them, heavy and unbroken. Eventually, he spoke up, voice roughened. "It is done."

       She nodded, smiled, rubbed a hand across her face. "May I see?"

       He handed her the mirror brusquely, hand lingering a beat on her own. The smile she caught in her reflection was wide but strained. It was a strange thing, this parody of self. She studied her face, found the image wanting. Her pale lips were plump from good food and drink, but chapped from the cold. Cracked, torn... had she been chewing at them? There was a color to her skin that surprised her; a gentle rosy hue that spread beneath the subtle dappling of its overtones, pale and cool. Her nose was long, thin, tapered, but with a sharpness to it that was mirrored in her ample cheekbones. It amused her how little she knew of these features. The nose felt a bit off to her, strange in the way that only comes to a thing unused, unspoken, or unseen. Her forefinger prodded briefly at it; traced the angled outline of her cheeks, the swell of her lips, the dimples at her mouth, the rounded point of her chin. She blinked, noticing that her eyelashes were indeed as thick and long as they so often felt whenever they tarnished her vision on a blustery day. She had no way of knowing if her appearance had been bettered or worsened since the onset of her journey, or before that, even.

       Her hair, however, was much improved. This, she knew. Smiling more earnestly, she took it in. The gentle shine that fell from the filtering sun rays upon her locks, glimmering like honey on a bear's paw. The subtle curve of it that echoed the outline of her face, the way it hung and fell and shaped itself along that with which it came into contact. The edges were no longer frayed, but sharp and clean; smooth, reaching just shy of her elbows. It tickled, where it touched her skin. Her face was framed by locks now inches shorter than the rest, tapered to a point in line with her chin. Her fingers slipped softly over those pieces in particular, marveling at the newfound texture, the feel against her sensitive flesh. The strangeness of having a face to assign _herself_ was... marvelous.

       "To aid in keeping the hair from your face," he informed, noticing her attention to the layers, "but not so short as to be jarring. They may still be held back in a plait, if you wish, or placed behind your ears." He demonstrated, smoothing the nearest strand with his thumb; tucking it back to be tightly fixed behind the remaining portion of her ear.

       "Solas," she wondered aloud, tilting her head at the looking glass, "am I pretty?"

        He frowned, withdrew his hand, stood a pace back. "Why do you want to know, _da'len_?"

       "Because I want to know," she insisted, petulance in her tone, "Do not lie to me."

       "You are beautiful, girl, though I do not see why it should matter," he sighed, shifted his weight onto his right leg, "This world places too much merit on the irrelevant."

       "And not enough on what counts, yes. That's all very well and good, but I would like to know the barest truth of my own existence, thank you," she stood, placing the mirror back on the nearby nightstand, "I do not see why it should vex you so."

       "Let me ask you instead, would it bother you if I did not find you attractive?"

       "Your pardon?" Samara bristled, voice growing in agitation, "I said _nothing_ of you! I asked only of truth!"

       Solas gave a longsuffering sigh, hands raised palm up in a gesture of placation, "You cannot request the opinion of a man on such a subject as this, and not expect his preference to color the answer."

       "And why not? I don't see what one's-- one's preference has to do with it! I gaze upon a flower and know that it is beautiful. Whether the color agrees with me or the pattern pleases my eye, I know all the same! I do not need to pluck it to know it so!"

       "I said nothing of _plucking_ , my lady. Forgive me if I implied differently, or have otherwise caused you distress."

       Samara flushed, her gaze falling upon an adjacent wall. She was feeling altogether discomfited, but could not name the reason for it. "I- I know. I did not mean... I apologize."

       She saw his nod from the corner of her eye, but dare not shift her stare. "Allow me to correct my mistake, then: would it bother you to _be_ unattractive?"

       "I do not know," she admitted, chewing at the inner corner of her lip. "But... if you'll excuse me, I find myself now in want of air," she breathed out in a rush, sidestepping him to head for the door.

       "Samara," he called softly, causing her to freeze in place, "I regret any offense I have caused. It was not my intention."

       Her head fell, heavy with guilt. "I know," she answered, not turning around, "the fault is mine. I am sorry, truly. I know not the cause of my outburst. I would take it back, if I could." She fidgeted, drew a breath, ran her hands through her softened locks. "Thank you, for my hair. It was kind of you to heed my request, silly as it was. We will speak soon-- I swear it."

       She sped out of the room at a brisk pace, leaving a dumbfounded Solas standing stock still in her quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tehe, Samara gets a bit of foot-in-mouth syndrome, and is *someone * flirting, or is this just a stupid misunderstanding? *Walks away, whistling*


	11. Touch Like Snow - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group begins their journey to Therinfal. Various interactions occur on the way.

_I had a star in heaven –_

_One “Pleiad” was its name –_

_And when I was not heeding,_

_It wandered from the same._

_And tho’ the skies are crowded –_

_And all the night ashine –_

_I do not care about it –_

_Since none of them are mine._

_\-- Emily Dickinson, I Had A Guinea Golden_

       To be on the move once more, it was a gentle pleasure. A comfort for listless, wandering hearts. Samara was not a creature of idle ease, to be placated by the amenities of city life; not meant to be contained by four walls of wood or stone, a bed in the corner, a fire in the hearth. These gifts were pleasant when attained, but relinquished easily for the cushion of moss beneath her feet, the scent of cedar in her nostrils, the droplets of spring rain that misted her slightly wayward hair. Samara was a wild thing; every bit the daughter of the forest her purported lineage espoused, ill content with the trappings and taming of the civilized world. She was glad to be free of it, brief though her respite may be.

       The lithe elf was crouched-- weight fully on the balls of her feet --before a fallen softwood limb, legs drawn up halfway to her belly, back arched; poised for action on instinct alone. It was an uncomfortable position, taxing on her lean, muscled legs, but she paid it no mind. Her left hand brushed over the the large log's surface. It was sufficiently swollen with water and rot to provide a healthy home for the little critters, who in turn would provide sustenance for the area's larger denizens. The wood ants alone would prove a woodpecker's bounty, she mused, fingers trailing lovingly over the dense cover of foliose lichen and spore-bearing moss. Her wandering hand paused above a small crop of liverwort, a smile drawn upon her damp face. Causing as little disruption as possible, she plucked a miniscule portion of the extended thallus, turning the tiny lobules over in her palm to free them of insects and dirt. She plopped the _Porella_ unceremoniously into her mouth, chewing to release the flavor. Her smile widened at the burst of pepper and spice, glad for the serendipity of her discovery. Kneeling upon the forest floor, her hands worked deftly, kneading at the mass of bryophytes for the species she sought to enliven their evening meal. She was reminded suddenly of a raccoon in the night-- eyes never leaving her own --fingers and claws working nimbly in the soil in search of insects, _annelids_ , amphibians. The comparison drew a chuckle.

       Moving from fallen branch to snag, Samara collected what she could, careful to leave sufficient remnants for regrowth. She hummed happily as she worked, bouncing around on her tiptoes with a noticeable spring in her step, overjoyed by the sense of belonging she felt to her very bones whenever she was in the presence of nature. She hadn't noticed this lightness, before she left the Marches, so overcome was she by memories of fear, despair, and rage. It was worse, in the cities. Accordingly, it was better here. Much better.

       She tucked the harvest into a small pouch that rested above her hip, smoothing the leavings of mud onto her patchy breeches. The stain it left barely registered above the innumerable others; she would have to relent, eventually. Seek aid with cleaning them, or even find a replacement. But that was a worry for another time, she decided, sprinting full speed towards their small encampment, Revas panting at her back. When she reached the outskirts her arms extended above her head, hands catching onto a thick branch and using the momentum of her run to launch upwards in a spin. She alighted upon the branch, crouched low and near to the trunk, to watch her companions milling about below.

       Solas, to the surprise of none, was keeping to himself. Pacing slowly at the far edge of camp, eyes on the forest but focused beyond. Seeing something, she supposed, that the rest of them could scarce imagine. Varric had ceased in pestering the Seeker-- for the time being, at least --and sat upon an adjusted bedroll, nose in a novel. Cassandra was pacing, too, within the camp, though her range was far more stifled, steps unsure. They were all of them alone together. Samara wondered if this were not, somehow, her doing. It almost hurt. Almost stang. Almost tore.

       With no sound to give away her intention, Samara leapt from the tree. She landed just shy of Cassandra-- whose hand fell swiftly to her blade --dropping without warning into an impromptu roll to displace the motion, exiting it just as quickly. She stood close to the stoic Seeker: too close. With a hum she stepped backward, hands raised. "I bring a gift," she stated, one hand moving slowly to her pouch, the other still held aloft in a pantomime of surrender. Revas watched cautiously from her side, eyes raised, head lowered dangerously, but otherwise showing none of his unease.

       Cassandra raised a questioning brow, hand dropping hesitantly from scabbard to dangle benignly at her slender hip.

       The Seeker was not a particularly curvaceous woman. It was strange, as an elf, to be the more shapely party in any arrangement. Elves were not, by nature, known for their thick bones or hourglass figures. They were fair and beauteous, certainly, but that beauty manifested in more subtle ways, save for the sharp angles that oft defined the planes of their faces. Elves were pale and slender, their thin limbs muscled but wiry. Their effeminate nature, as humans saw it, was common to both sexes. But Samara was tall and weighty among her kind, her bones longer and more widely set than was strictly normal. Possessed of child-bearing hips, she'd been told on more than one occasion-- rare though the chances of being told anything by the People were --and the look of hunger that sparked in gray eyes then had been unnerving. Samara was unsure whether the uniqueness of her build was more desired or reviled by the Dalish she encountered. She'd received the occasional hint at both. _More often the latter, though._ Not that she paid overmuch heed. Didn't care, she told herself, just _idle curiosity._ It was mostly true, she thought. Hoped.

       Still, to be curved and weighty among the Dalish meant little. By men's standards, she was built straight, wisp-thin. So it was that Samara eyed the Seeker with surprise. Not judgment-- never that cursed emotion so often leveled in her direction beneath furrowed brows, the heaviness of those glares like stones in her heart --for still Samara was unclear why an individual's appearance had any bearing on whether they were liked or otherwise. No. _By your words you will be justified, and by your words condemned._ Words, actions, heart. Such was where the power lay. Blame or praise, it would be there. Not to be sifted off the surface like scummed film from a pond. The true horrors were always deeper. _So much deeper._ _Down to the soul, leaking like wine from a burst skin, red as blood. Blood..._

       The thoughts flitted through Samara's mind unbidden, flowing like water through a sieve. It was but an instant, she thought, quick as lightning. Per the norm. But the way the Seeker-- everyone, in fact --was gazing at her expectantly... it gave her pause. Had it been long? She could not say. That fact was unnerving.

       Samara cleared her throat. Averted her eyes. Shifted her stance. "To flavor our meals," she offered, hand extending the collected liverwort towards Cassandra. _An act of appeasement..._

       Cassandra took the plants with a quirked brow, turned them over in her hand. _Such is the way of monsters._

       "It will cause no harm," Samara insisted, grabbing a pinch of the bryophyte to chew with a smirk. _Grasping, clawing, let me get ahold..._

       And, just like that, everything shifted. Changed. Drifted. The tension in the atmosphere was diminished. _Let. Me. In._ Gone. Solas had stopped his pacing, was watching from the camp's corner with faint interest. Cassandra smiled. Varric clapped her on the back. The book he was favoring lay discarded beside his tent.

       "You're alright, Snow," he laughed openly-- loud and pure --hand brushing against her shoulder.

        It was such a little thing. Just a tiny plant. A simple gesture. The barest murmur. But with it, everything was changed. She felt the ripples, sensed the world move. Watched in horror and relief. A flood. A chuckle. Sing-song. _You. You let me in._

       Samara blinked, turned 'round, knitted her brow. "Snow?"

       The dwarf's laugh morphed into a pensive chuckle. He rolled his shoulders back, bit at his lower lip. "Yeaaaah," he groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck, "There's this plant, grows all over. Everyone calls it a snowberry. It's beautiful, strong. Stands up to the weather and all that. Stuffy nobles love the stuff, toss it in their best gardens without a thought. Just like having it around, I guess. It blooms like normal, even looks pretty normal. Up until fall, that is. Then those flowers give way to berries-- white as Andraste's shiny ass --pure as can be. They last the winter. Longer than any fruit should. Crack 'em open, they look like snow. All glistening crystal inside.

       "But," Varric tensed slightly, shot a knowing glance in Samara's direction, "no one with a brain in their skull touches the shit. Take a bite, well. It'll knock you on your ass. Kill you, if you're not careful. Noooot to be trifled with, I'll tell ya." Sola's nodded cautiously in the distance.

       "I knew of a man who lost his child in such a manner. The boy fell unto a slumber from which there would be no awakening."

       Cassandra frowned. "That's awful, Varric," she deadpanned-- her Nevarran accent lengthening the syllables with a peculiar gravity --glaring all the while.

       The dwarf's hands shot up at that, waving about as though the motion might forestall the Seeker's annoyance. "Now, now, Seeker. _Solas_ is the one who took it someplace dark! That's not how I meant it. There's plenty of crap in this world that'll shrivel and die from a stern glance. Can't take the heat, y'know? Pretty, but useless. Samara isn't like that. Tough as nails, our girl. Can take on a damn _Pride_ demon without breaking a sweat. I know you all saw it-- she didn't even flinch! Man's gotta have balls to ride with a woman like that. I know _I'm_ nervous."

       "Snow," Samara whispered, tasting the sobriquet in her mouth, "I do not mind it." It was only too fitting, after all. The burly dwarf seemed the type to choose his words with care. Whether a side effect of his beloved pastime, or the cause for its genesis, she knew not.

       "There, you see? Snow's got no objections," Varric grinned. Sidestepping the Herald and Seeker both, he grabbed eagerly at the bundle Cassandra was holding.

       He plopped a chunk in his mouth, turning it over with his tongue. His cheeks bulged comically wide, like a squirrel hoarding nuts. "That's, ah, different," he spoke after a thick swallow, speech fractionally garbled, "Kind of like eating a really pissed off flower."

       " _Porella_ ," Samara informed, "A liverwort... a type of plant that lacks the usual support structures of its fellows. Sustenance does not flow through its veins, for it lacks them entirely. It finds survival by other means. Through the aid of others, as it happens."

       Varric was gazing at her with a bemused expression. Samara's face wrinkled in answering concern, a frown perched at the ready, "Do you not like it?"

       The dwarf waved his hand disarmingly. "No, no. It's interesting. Good, I mean. I was just wondering how you knew all this stuff. Not really common knowledge for..." His voice trailed off.

       "For an elf? You needn't restrain yourself on my account. I am not offended by the discrepancies between our upbringings. Such is, after all, the way of the world. Whether or not I'd have it otherwise, were it in my power to change, is irrelevant. It is not in my power."

       "Naw. I meant for anyone, really. I know how the world works, Snow. You don't have to like it, but it'll scrabble and spin the same either way." His expression fell so subtly, Samara might have missed it had she not been looking so closely, "So? How'd you learn it? Seems like your people wouldn't need all those details. Just the useful things, like how to make a poultice work and a meal hot."

       Her lips quirked. "Do you not find knowledge useful, Varric?"

      "Not what I meant. I do. But the sentiment's hardly unanimous."

       She supposed an answer was owed. Samara stifled the piercing sigh she felt gripping at her throat, slowly ripping at the sinew of her frail heart, now increased in tempo. She thought she felt something worse than a sigh struggling to tear free of the tightness in her lungs. She held her breath. She released it cautiously, blinked wearily, and answered, "Knowledge of flora is widespread among the Dalish. But you are correct. It is practical knowledge, only. Botanical trivia beyond the scope of what can be readily applied, it is not needed. Not desired. Taxonomy is superfluous, so long as you can tell the good from the bad. I had a friend. He taught me to read in the common tongue, told me of the cities. Showed me, once. During our... talks, he would bring an assortment of books to sate my appetite. Many of these taught anatomy, history, linguistics... the broader points of the forest, as men viewed it. A unique perspective. Detached, but informative. I sought more at every opportunity."

      "But your friend," Varric continued, and Samara had to fight against the stiffness in her muscles, her joints, "How'd he get these books? Doesn't seem the type of thing you'd find lying around."

       "Ah. No, indeed," she acknowledged, warring between the twin evils of solitude and secrets shared, "his sister was a woman of some privilege, in her way. She had access to a Circle, and would... gift him what knowledge she could." In other words, a Circle mage turned Warden, with a penchant for nicking items of interest. "When she... when she left, her possessions were bequeathed him." That was putting it delicately; the Circle would not have been so kind. Nor the Wardens, in all likelihood. Lyra had made arrangements with some rather unsavory types, that Thomas might receive whatever wealth yet remained in her care. In the event of... the unforeseen. _The inevitable._

       "Oh? Where'd she go?"

        _Maker, save me from the curiosity of dwarves._ "Through the Beyond. To what paradise awaits on the far side, I assume."

       In an instant, the air of the camp grew heavy, as if a thick fog had rolled in unannounced. "Oh. I'm sorry."

       "It is the past, _lethallin_. We all have those. Rarely-- in such times as we now face --are they pleasant."

       "A sad truth, Herald," Cassandra spoke at last, her expression grim. "That," she supplied, placing a firm hand on Samara's shoulder, "is precisely why we fight. That no more innocents may fall. We will strike tragedy from the surface of Thedas with our dying breath, if need be." The Seeker's grip tightened, then released.

       "So mote it be," Samara whispered under her breath, as the Seeker departed to stow the remaining liverwort. 

 

* * *

 

   As the sun began to fall, the party helped themselves to meager quantities of the foodstuffs they had supplied for the journey, and which Samara had collected from the woods: bread; mead; a broth made from boiled bones, root vegetables, and wild mushrooms; a small salad of greens upon which she'd managed to stumble. Rationing would be essential on this journey, and any that followed. Samara wasn't worried. She had certainly been through worse.

       The group sat close around the fire, eating and making small talk. Rather, they ate while Varric talked. Samara found the setup duly amusing, though she was hesitant to let it show.

       "How come grumpy over there gets to feast on salted meats, while we're stuck here with the bones?" Varric griped, gesturing towards the wolf stretched at Samara's feet, even as his gaze fell suspiciously on his own bowl of stew.

       "He isn't _grumpy_ ," Samara frowned, "and his intestinal tract cannot digest greenery. Ours can. It is quite simple, Varric, really."

       "Please, Snow. He's as bad as you."

       "We cannot all be such shameless gossips," she smirked.

        Cassandra nodded her approval.

       "Are you sure these mushrooms are safe?" he continued, swirling the mixture with an idle motion of his hand, "I've seen some bad shit come from eating wild mushrooms."

       "Yes, Varric, for the third time. They are safe," Samara grunted.

       "But how can you be sure? You're not even _from_ here!"

       "Books, remember? And proper judgment, I should hope. But," she smiled only too sweetly, finally making eye contact, "if it concerns you so greatly, may I suggest you restrict yourself to the salad?"

       Varric moaned loudly, making a big show of how put-out he was, and began sipping warily at the stew.

       Samara chuckled quietly to herself.

      "Sooo," Varric began. Samara and Solas closed their eyes in unison, brows furrowed as though fighting a disastrous headache. Cassandra made a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. "Come on, guys!" Varric insisted through a light pout, "Fate saw fit to throw us all together. Least we can do is enjoy it."

       "I _was_ enjoying myself," Cassandra grumbled.

       Samara looked at Varric, who was still unabashedly pouting. "Fine," she breathed heavily, "What did you have in mind?"

       Cassandra groaned again.

       "You're _all_ grumpy!" Varric complained, though he dare not look to the Seeker, "You won't beat the darkness back with frowns. Lighten up! I was just wondering what everyone missed the most from their lives before." He scowled. "Before _this_ ," he said, gesturing at... everything.

       "A cheery subject," Cassandra mumbled from between bites of her meal.

       "Hey!" Varric looked wounded. "It is! Does a man good to remember what he's fighting for."

       "I miss my journeys in the Fade," Solas stated levelly.

       "What, you don't sleep anymore?" Varric asked, brow raised.

       "Not as I once did. Ruins and ancient battlefields are not as safe as they were."

       "Yeah, they used to be the height of safety. Well, we'll make 'em safe again. Safe as they were, anyway. Snow?"

       She frowned at her bowl. "Hmm?"

       Varric rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Snow. Don't be shy. What do you miss?"

       "Hmm."

       "Maker's _balls_ , no more monosyllabic theatrics, woman! Solas answered, now it's your turn."

       "I was _thinking_ , Varric. I'd hoped you might be inspired to do the same." she grinned, then settled back against the log on which she was leaning, "I miss the Forest."

       "Uuuggh. We're _in_ a forest, Snow. Doesn't count."

       "And who are you to decide my memories' worth, dwarf?" she chided, but her voice was not without mirth, "I meant _my_ forest. The Dalish are wanderers, as I'm sure you know. They roam about like wild beasts, never content to settle in one place. Never able to do so, either. The humans and their laws-- their borders, their hatred --prevent it. But I am not the Dalish. I am... a singular entity. When the Dalish wandered, I did not accompany them. I made my home in the wide reaches of the Planasene. I did not leave it lightly."

       "Will you return, Samara?" Solas interjected, "When our mission is accomplished?"

       She shrugged. "I do not know. What had bound me to the Planasene... it is long fled from me. I stayed only because I had little alternative-- little hope for one. When our cause is done... I do not know if I should return."

       Varric cleared his throat. "Seeker?" he asked, hesitance clear in his tone.

       "I have no intention of parading my pain before you, dwarf."

       "But everyone else is doing it! It's called _bonding_ , Seeker. You should try it."

       Cassandra nearly growled, "And _everyone else_ is also fighting needless wars. Looting, summoning demons, performing _blood magic_ ," her answering glare was a heavy one, "Would you have me join them on the same foolhardy principle?"

       The dwarf shook his head. "Guess that leaves me, then. I miss... ah. There was this one brothel in--"

       "Maker preserve me!" Cassandra spat.

       Varric laughed. "There are few comforts like the touch of a good woman, Seeker. Or two."

       "That would require _knowing_ a good woman, dwarf. I doubt any would suffer your company long."

       Something in Varric's face gave Samara pause. She felt herself blanching ever-so slightly beneath its weight. "You're wrong," she interjected crisply, before turning from Cassandra to Varric with narrowed eyes, "and _you're_ lying."

       For a moment, the dwarf looked horrified. It blew over quickly, though, giving way to his usual capricious irreverence. "Whatever you say, Snow. Heh, it's what I _do_ , after all."

       "That it is," Cassandra groused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't help it; I slipped in a Tolkien reference. Bonus points if you spot it!


	12. Touch Like Snow - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara dreams. It is... not pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've not read Asunder, parts of this may be rather confusing. If you have read Asunder... you might still be confused. ;D
> 
> Oh, I may have to ease up on posting a bit, to build suspense-- I mean because of school. Lolz, apologies. Hopefully I'll still find time, but daily updates *are* kind of ridiculous, even for me. And I'm pretty ridiculous.

        _“I could use a good scream. I can feel one perched under my chin.”_

_“Let it out.”_

_“I’m afraid that if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”_

_\-- Hannibal 1x13_

       That night, Samara found sleep slow in coming. She tossed beneath her light furs, rolling this way and that. Sometimes she landed squarely atop Revas, who only gave a low grunt as the air was pressed from his lungs, but did not bother moving. She frowned. Varric's crestfallen face would not leave her mind. _This_ was precisely why she avoided people. Well, that, and the fact that they were mostly assholes.

       When sleep finally claimed her, the Beyond was brimming with nightmares of every sort. The shadows danced, slithered. Voices laughed mirthlessly in the dark. Invisible claws dug into her skin, ripping shreds of her innards without spilling a drop of blood, without leaving a visible scar. Sometimes, she thought the claws were her own. Sometimes, it was worse; something _else_ tried to push its way free of her rippling flesh, stretching the malleable walls of its living cage as though they were leather on the rack, yet somehow an impermeable membrane. Escape was denied it. It could not get out.

       She shivered. Agony was hers to its fullest extent, but she did not cry out. Could not, maybe.There were _things_ in the shadows, and she was among them. It felt wrong. It felt right. _This is where I belong._ Once, she lost her skin entirely; became a beast of fang, fur, and claw. The hunger was overpowering. The hunt beckoned mercilessly. She almost gave in, but then the ravening form was gone.

       Suddenly, she became a trembling fawn, desperately loping to outrun the coursing hounds. Something was ill in them; a blackness to their skin, redness in their eyes, too much dexterity in their paws. But then, she realized, something was _wrong_ with her, too. She saw too much, too well. The muscle in her loins was growing. It was rippling, again. Faintly, she heard the distant snapping sound of flesh giving way. Her sneer was irrepressible, then-- _it all worked out so well_ \--but in her widening maw there were _teeth_ built to consume.

       She leapt upwards, a massive, powered hurtle, and she was on the nearest tree, lengthening claws piercing through the bark and tender flesh. With a throaty chuckle she stretched out, and on either side of her slavering snout fanned great featherless wings. She dropped. The litter of the forest floor whipped into a whirlwind as her wings spread out of the dive, the yowling of the hounds reaching her pricked ears through the din. Her heart raced, her clawed fingers spread. Leaves spun around her like a tornado. Whimpers, whines, and growls filled her mind as she leapt upon the nearest dog. Claws met and severed muscle. Teeth sank into a meaty throat. Blood danced upon her tongue, and the noise was as nothing to her. All there was, all that mattered, was the taste of blood. After a moment's indulgence she tore the hound in twain. Vestiges of its brief existence clung to her claws like linen scraps. Blood coated her face. She tilted her scaled head, gazed inquisitively at its approaching cohorts, and then the forest burst into flame. Their screams of pain filled the woods, but the inferno did not harm her. After all; it was hers. When she looked down at the dog she had rent in two, she found it wasn't a dog at all. And she was but an elf, wreathed in flames, ruined by blood, a dagger in her hand. Samara fell to her knees, stifled a moan. And then, she was running. Away from the licking flames and charred corpses, away from the ruin and despair.

       Into the darkness, she ran. Into the darkness she melded. She walked cautiously amidst the shadows. The dagger was no longer in her hand, but the blood remained. It always did.

      Sometimes, she saw Thomas' pained face. Or, rather, its passing semblance, no doubt wielded flippantly as a skin-suit by some devil that fed upon fear or despair. Disgusted, she screamed-- though no voice was granted her. Drawing upon the last of her depleted strength, she pushed with all her might. She hurled it away from her; willed the shadows to retreat. Willed the moon to shine. And, to her surprise, it did. The fog cleared, the shadows ebbed, and all was still. Moonbeams trickled through parting clouds, revealing Samara to be standing in a field, eerily silent. She was completely alone. The field was empty, too, save for a single dilapidated shack looming haphazardly in the distance. It felt somehow lonely. So did she.

       It was just so little, so broken, so alone. She _had_ to seek it out. Couldn't just leave it like that-- no --not as so many had left her. As she neared the rickety structure, a sickening pop sounded beneath her foot. There had been nothing there moments before, but she felt the extra give, heard the crack, the slick squishing of blood oozing beneath her boot. Terror welled within her, but she tamped it down, filed it away in that dark wooden chest in her mind; the place she sent the ugly things. Instead of furthering the apprehension with delay, she looked down. A starved cat was splayed upon the soil, skull cracked. Its ribs were protruding, its hips jutting out, its skin taut against bone. She told herself it was dead already. She was sure it was true. Nevertheless, she wanted desperately to just fall upon the ground, down to her knees, wade into the blood and earth with an unending wail. She did not. She pressed on. The shack was close, now. The lights were abruptly on. Noises stirred within.

       Taking a breath, she pressed open the moldy door. It squeaked and stuttered, as though it might fall straight off its hinges. Miraculously, it stayed intact. More than could be said for the cat, the men-- _Thomas_... her. Samara entered the little kitchen and gasped. A man was ascending the cellar stairs, fresh blood staining his clothes. He was a behemoth. And he was angry. He spoke, face contorted in rage, but she couldn't make out the words. The _pain_ was too loud-- whimpers screamed in her ears, stunning her into silence, stillness. Her body was rigid and cold. It was all too much, too cruel, _too familiar!_ \-- but foreign, distant, fogged suddenly with smoke. Something in the kitchen drew her: she _had_ to make it, make it before-- she slogged towards the source of the pain, but her movements were stiff, jagged, pulled, like molasses tugged at her every step. The man was closer now-- so close! --but she was close, too. She would make it in time. She had to make it there first. Always too late, always just a second too late... but she was there. She was _there. Creak, creak,_ went the little door, and there were eyes boring into her own, filled with horror, tears, guilt, but more: filled with accusation. Tears brimmed in her eyes, too. Samara reached out a single, bloodied hand, almost there-- bawling, now, _begging_ \-- _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!_ \-- and the little house faded away.

       Samara awoke with a start to Revas' whines. Her limbs shook with such power that she feared standing would be impossible. Where moments prior blood had stained her extremities a crusted, bleak shade of black in the moonlight, now sweat drenched in its place. She hugged tightly to the wolf against the quivering fear, let the emotions shiver and drain. Sleep might not be possible, either. Even if it were, Samara numbly doubted she would pursue the nightmares. She could not bear the weight of her failures.


	13. Burn as I Burn (Long into an Abyss) - pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So begins the wormhole of Therinfal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back-editing to add quotes shortly. Warning: I may get quote happy.

_I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow._

_I feel my fate in what I cannot fear._

_I learn by going where I have to go._

_\-- Theodore Roethke, The Waking_

       Therinfal's little game of flags was infuriating, to say the least. Samara was sorely tempted to set the whole thing aflame and start with a clean slate: it'd be a powerful metaphor, after all. Not far from the necessary truth.

       She cursed inwardly at her supposedly low opinion of the templars. _It's not as though we're trying to enter their good graces, or anything of the sort!_ she scoffed, glaring at the flashy little symbols indicative of her own indecisiveness. _This way, no, that way-- fenedhis!_ It was funny. It really was. Silly, ridiculous. Still, she could feel herself straining under the weight. Creaking, stretching, stumbling, breaking. The snap of the olden bough beneath winter's first snow. The old ones could not suffer the burden. The aged rarely lived to see the verdant spring. _We have seen so many Falls..._

       Samara bore no ill will towards the templars. They ought to be good folk, walking ever in service to the Maker-- but then why did they earn a separate flag? She supposed whenever humanity entered the mix, everything was bound to fall to shit. Too many biases clouded the truth, obscuring justice. Their separation from Andraste and the Maker in this ostentatious display proved just that. She wished she'd refused the Knight-Templar's bloody request; it was likely only a method to find fault in her choices, to rile one side or the other against the cause that so desperately needed their support. In the end, though, the only banner of merit belonged to the Maker; to Andraste. All wisdom, justice, honor, faith... it all stemmed thence, trickling down to the factions and peoples that claimed fealty to Him. Accordingly, she placed the people second, as she could. The templars were sworn to serve, in any case. Just as her life was not her own. Not any longer, if ever it was. It made sense that the guardians be placed below; the shepherd ought not place himself before the sheep, lest the flock be lost. Yes, it was appropriate. Hopefully the people would agree. If they didn't, well, she was no longer listening, anyway. Too many shouts of rage, cheers of praise, all noise lacking sense. No meaning. It struck her as terribly insincere. Her ears thrummed with her heart beat, calm and peaceful, drumming music over the ill-conceived din. It was... manageable. She could do this. Would do this. Had no choice. The right path beckoned; if she turned away, she would never forgive herself. No, _no_ \-- that made this about her. It _wasn't_. If she turned away, the world would descend to chaos. Innocent lives would be lost. That was the cost. Failure was not an option, would never _be_ an option.

       "I have made my choice," she stated, loud; commanding, "and my reasons are my own."

 

* * *

 

       The journey through the fallen bastion was disorienting. Samara had expected a bit of wear in the towering structure, timeless but old-- its imposing construction had brought to mind memories of that final Conclave; the temple, the inner sanctum, abuzz with that same haughty supremacy, with life... until the buzzing stopped, and all was silent --but she hadn't expected the permeating sorrow that seeped through the walls like a strangling ichor with a mind all its own, seeking the ruin, the collapse... she thought she caught wind of sweet musics slipping through the shivering air, but then here, too, all was silent. Until it wasn't. Until the screams and interrupted cries, the red blood coating the stones, singing like lyrium through the veins but darker, deeper, poisoned. The blood of the fallen would-be martyrs was tainted. Stained by the same music that threatened-- _no_ , there was no music here. No songs, no hope. Only death. Lord Abernache was dead, the Lord Seeker missing. The keep had descended into chaos, despite her efforts. It really didn't matter, in the end. Samara ascended to meet the Lord Seeker's call, and everything faded to black. Oblivion was becoming painfully familiar.


	14. Burn as I Burn (Long into an Abyss) - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara gazes long into that abyss...

_How can those terrified vague fingers push_

_The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?_

_And how can body, laid in that white rush,_

_But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?_

 

_A shudder in the loins engenders there_

_The broken wall, the burning roof and tower_

_And Agamemnon dead._

_\-- William Butler Yeats, Leda and the Swan_

       Samara was drawn into the void once more. Here, as in her dreams, the shadows danced. Here, as in her dreams, a voice beckoned. This one, however, she perceived with her ears rather than the darkened reaches of her inner mind. It was no less subversive, though. She felt despoiled all the same, as though something impossibly good had been stolen from her soul, as though the darkness has risen up at once in a grand bid to swallow her whole. It was not a new feeling.

       The voice was Envy, she realized. Yes, she'd gathered that much before the shadows took her. She began to wander the darkened corridors in which she was contained, but all the while she was growing agitated; furious. A caged hound snapping at the bonds; the leash, the bars, thirsting for blood. A captured horse chomping at the bit, tugging against the accursed bridle. Some spirits were not meant to be broken.

       Each room she encountered played host to new little terrors, but the madness of it had yet to reach her. She felt distanced, apart. In an unveiled effort to learn more of her, the demon forced her to slay her comrades, her... friends? Friends... perhaps that was the word for it. For them. Perhaps not. As she drew her blade across their throats, she felt... nothing. A greater crime than the act itself.

       She could scarce contain her fury any longer. No longer was there the desire. Perhaps giving in was the better plan, after all; perhaps the demon was not immune to fury himself. Perhaps he could be drawn out...

       "What do you see, demon, when you look at me?" Samara hummed, speaking into the nothingness that encased her, "A child, a daughter, a friend? A savior? A lover, a warrior... a _killer_? I am much more than the sum of my parts. You _cannot_ be me. You aren't _worthy_ of _me_."

       "We shall see," the voice echoed.

       "Yes," Samara hummed, drawing her dagger lightly over the skin of her arm, "we shall." The blade skimmed up her shoulder, her neck, to pause at her cheek, "If I drag this dagger across my skin, demon. If I cut and peel and tear it away... will you have any face left to wear?" She gave a cruel, tinny laugh. Threw the dagger up, caught it easily between her fingertips. "It would be an amalgam of spare parts. Nothing real. Nothing with meaning. Just flayed skin and ragged sinew. It's all you can ever hope to accomplish. Remnants in the mirror, all purpose lost. Tell me, demon-- you, spawn of working minds far greater than your own hollowed, writhing husk --how does that knowledge suit you?"

       "Not half as well as your face shall, impudent child!" the voice roared.

       She chuckled under her breath, fanned the rage even as she pulled it close, "You're a very binary creature, you know that? Command, envy... flipsides of a coin I long ago left by the wayside. It's pathetic. An embarrassment. I have learnt to be so much _more_. The world is at my disposal. You, demon, are as nothing before the might of the mortal mind."

       "I have lived centuries beyond your petty imaginings, whelp! I will learn this more as I have learnt all things. I will learn it through you."

       "You will try. You will be overcome," she lilted sing-song, her voice trailing exponentially into a malevolent whisper, " _All_ things are overcome."

       She began to make her way down the dimly lit corridor. As she ambled forward, she turned the tip of her blade to scrape against the stone walls, letting the noise steel her. She did not expect the demon would respond to petty fear tactics; he knew them too well. By rote, no doubt. Still, it gave her a measure of power. Strength. Would that serve only to strengthen the demon, in turn? Who knew. It didn't matter. She would not-- could not break. If she did... she knew exactly who would be there to pick up the pieces.

       Somehow, she would avert that fate. Would die before this monster claimed her. _No._ Those thoughts were wrong. Weakening. _Kill_ , she reminded, chiding herself. There was no cause for death. She would not have it.

       Upon exiting the long, stretching hall, Samara entered a new room, impossibly large. At first it was barren, filled only with an oppressive, choking blackness that coated thickly from floor to ceiling. But as she walked onward, it began to shift. Deciduous trees grew from the nothingness. The room expanded, brightened, darkened. At its heart now rest a wooden structure revealed through the black fog, its architecture hewn in flowing, organic shapes, subtle and gentle. It was completely out of place within the cold stone walls, belonging instead to farmland, forest, or prairie. Some lovely, middle-of-nowhere town lost to the ages. Weathered cobblestone led a winding, aimless path from the small building. The misshapen bricks were overgrown with moss, crumbling at the edges. A wagon was broken down-- wheels flat upon the soil --nearby. She did not know this place. An elven couple was approaching-- having materialized from the shadows --humming as they walked hand in hand. She did not know these people. They were tall but thin, graceful, beautiful, though their features were blotted by the cake of mud. Their clothes hung loose, tattered and frail. Brown hair waved long and shining, though it, too, was badly weathered.

       "Show me," the accursed voice rang, "It seems if I am to learn, then so must you."

        The elves had stopped just shy of Samara, their faces contorted in horror and recognition. Frozen like that, wide eyes on her. Unmoving.

       "What will you do, little child?" hissed the voice, dreadfully amused.

       Her dagger was in her hands. Of course it was. She was edging away, walking off, when a set of shadowed hands shot from the shadows, held her own firmly. Painfully. She could not move. The grip was like stone. " _Stop_ ," Samara growled, all menace and venom. The tone might have cowed a lesser man. But this was not a man. The shadow-figure was behind her, now, its body so cold against her back that it _burned_. The body pressed closer, the hands roved sensuously over her form. Hot breath scorched the skin behind her ear. " _Mine_ ," came a whisper, so soft she may have imagined it, if not for the breath-- now on her nape --that told her otherwise. A barely formed hand rolled down her side, grasped her hip with bruising force. Another in her hair, stirring it like the wind. Then her neck, her shoulder, her stomach... " _give in_ , " whispered the new voice, " _give yourself to me_." Fighting was becoming harder. It was becoming harder to remember that she _should_ fight, what fighting even _was_. Harder to remember anything at all... an unwanted moan escaped her as the hands roughly massaged; her shoulders, her lower back, her neck. Without realizing it, Samara was leaning into the embrace. Her head rolled back, eyes closed, mouth opened as breath and heart sped. She was reaching backward, lost in oblivion, clutching at the shadows, nails raking blood from nothing. She pivoted, bit _hard_ into the dark, pressed and pushed and tore. The hands reached _through_ her clothing, down to her skin. One scratched down her waist, her hip, lower, faster... the other slipped down her neck, her chest, pressed achingly against her breast, so-- no. _No_. She froze. Her eyes widened. Like one awakening from the haze of soporifics, Samara gasped for breath, blinked rapidly, tried to catch her bearings. And then she screamed-- roared. "No! Stop! Stop this now, monster. I _rebuke_ you!"

       And it stopped. The darkness fled. But it was... too late. _What? No! How?!_ The elven couple lay at her feet, blood pooling in drying puddles. _Failure isn't an option, yet you choose it daily. Fool. Monster._ Their skin was raked all over with wounds, dagger marks pressed cruelly into all available flesh. _Wicked beast._ This-- _this is the cost of your lies!_ The man had a bite mark tearing through his jugular--

       "Not good enough, little girl," the fucking voice was _mocking_ her, "show me the _truth_."

       Samara clutched at her head, shook, fought tears. Something was wrong with this scenario-- more wrong than the rest, at least --dark and wicked and impossibly painful. "How can I _show_ you what I don't know, you Maker accursed _idiot_!"

       She keeled over, feeling as though she might vomit. A retching heave shot a wave of spasms through her stomach so deep she clutched helplessly at the skin there, dug her fingers down to soothe the muscles, desperate to stave off the contractions. No bile came. "Mine," she whispered despite herself, despite the shiver it caused to wrack her body.

       "Show me," the voice commanded, level in pitch but it was _laughing_ , "show me _now_!"

       She blinked, and... blood. Everywhere. It seeped from her flesh, wounds on wounds on blades and-- _no. Not my blood. Yours! Whorechild! Wretched, filthy beast! I will have your heart, beating its last between my teeth! Burn as I burn! Blood for blood--_ "I'm so _thirsty_ , child," she crooned, memories playing out on her lips, "won't you wet my parched tongue? Yes, yes. I think you _will_." A wicked grin tugged at her lips-- forceful, so _strong_ \--all malice and teeth. "You taste so sweet, my dear. Mine. All mine. I have you, child," her lips twisted farther-- into a snarl --voice raising into a strained shout, "and I'm _never_ letting go."

       "Mine. All mine," she chanted to herself in a broken tone, feet rocking on the icy floor. Head in her hands, knees to her chin, hair twisting and breaking beneath her fingertips. "Mine, mine, mine."

       Her breath stuttered, her teeth rattled against her lower lip, and suddenly her right hand was moving. Fingers rapping, tap-tapping the rhythm against her thumb in forceful succession. _One. Two. Three. Four._ "You are mine, and I am yours. You are mine. I am yours." The rocking continued. Her lips bled. Hair was falling in pieces from her hand. "You're mine. I'm yours. Mine, yours. Mine, yours."

       Seconds whirled by, or minutes. Hours. She was suddenly inured to the dull passage of time. So lost was she to the memories, she barely noticed the new presence in the room. She looked at the shadowed figure, studied it-- looked but didn't see --while her hand kept the meaningless time like an off-kilter metronome. _Tilt-a-whirl, just like the world..._

       "Are you mine?" she asked too fast, the momentum of the talking and the rocking soothing her head. Then her face fell deeply, twisted into an angry scowl while her breath escaped in a hiss, "Or _am I yours_?"

       "Neither? You're you, rabbit. And I'm me. I'm Cole."

       Her head snapped to him at that. Hand stopped its twitching, fell to her chest. Time stood still. "You're... Cole? Cole," she whispered, mouth open, nails digging crescents under her clothes. Her face scrunched in confusion and distaste both. "But I'm not a rabbit."

       He shook his head. "No, you're an elf."

       She blinked. "I am?"

       "Yes."

       "How do you know?"

       He looked at her quizzically. The two merely stared for a time, neither moving. "I had a Bunny, once," he said softly, face shadowed, worn, lined with sorrow, "eyes wide, panic in the bones. Mewling and shivers, like the cat starving beneath the stairs. Muffled cries trembling in the silence, black in the noise, soft in my hands. Jagged breaths on a bed of flour. Iron in the air. Struggle and writhing, then nothing. She was so good, so _good_. Powder steps, red on the white in the black. No more jagged breaths. No more muffled cries." He took a step closer, hands wringing, unsure of where to go. "I won't let you die, rabbit. I won't."

      "I'm an _elf_ ," she repeated, tilting her head and ignoring how she shook, "yes. I think I know this. Elves don't like carrots _that_ much." She blinked faster, scowled down at her hand, "Die?"

      "Look at me, rabbit."

       "What?" she mumbled, still chewing on the idea of carrots. Orange taste and bitter, biting _snap_.

       "Look at me. Please."

       She did. She looked and-- _Maker_! --it _hurt_. The shaking worsened even as the panic waxed and waned. In the deep wells of his eyes she remembered something she forgot. Or was it forgot something she remembered? She couldn't remember _which_. Maybe a little of both. "Shit," she gasped, stood abruptly, head pounding and heart racing, "what-- where... what happened?"

       "Envy was hurting you. Too much remembering all at once. Too much, not enough. Hurt and biting, breaking, broke."

       "Cole," she repeated, forefinger tracing the marking over her heart.

       "Did it hurt?"

       "Hmm?" she hummed, thoughts elsewhere, everywhere, on _him_. _Everything_ hurt, but it just didn't seem to matter anymore. Not like before. The pain had dulled to a numb tingling.

       "The blood writing," he whispered, eyes tracking the motion of her hand, "Did it hurt?"

       "Not as much as forgetting, I think. I don't know. I did it; forgot. For so long, I forgot." Or was it that long, after all? It felt like an eternity, encased in cool sand. Cursed and barren.

       "I'm sorry. I told you you would."

       "It was you," she sighed, feeling guilt, self-loathing, and excitement all at once, "You were what I was meant to remember. At last, it seems I have."

       "I think so. Yes. You wanted to remember, but you forgot to."

       She forgot to remember. Of course. _You wanted to forget me,_ a voice sang from the blackest recesses of her mind, _but you_ remembered. Samara shivered.

       "You're different," Cole murmured, stepping forward with hand outstretched, roving gently through the air as though caressing her face from inches away. Touching her aura, maybe, or something else she couldn't see. "Bright-- brighter. Shining like the sun, but..."

       "But?" Samara nearly stuttered, her breath hitched. That didn't sound like a _good_ but.

       "Darker, too. But not. Quiet, shining, flickering. My eyes catch you and you're gone, all at once. Blurry around the edges. Fade-touched but more. I don't know." His hand sank gingerly back to his side. "I can see you more than anything, but I can't hear you the same. Crowded, silence booming. I feel... different, around you, too."

       "Is that bad?" Samara asked, voice quavering.

        Cole shook his head. "I don't know."

       "But..." Samara grumbled, frowning. _I_ want _you to hear me..._

       Cole smiled softly, warmth in his eyes. "It's not the same, but it's there. I hear you, rabbit. When you want me to, it's _loud_."

       She quirked her brow. "And when I don't?"

       He shrugged in response. "The rest is fuzzy, soft. Whispers in the night until they build, climb, jostling. The _sous de gens_  scramble in the dark, hunger biting, fight for scraps. It grows, if you let it. Even whispers can roar." He fidgeted, bit his cheek. After a moment of this, his eyes locked on hers with that newly familiar, piercing intensity, like daggers, like fire... "But... if you wanted me to stop?" he cocked his head, eyes wide; earnest but deeper, dangerous, more knowing, "I don't know. You haven't yet."

       She couldn't help but grin. _Nor do I expect that to change._ "So," she chuckled, leaning her back against the cold wall, setting her shoulders and letting her limbs leisurely drape from her body, "are you still you, Cole? Still new?"

       He nodded. "That's why I'm here."

       The grin grew. "You came back."

       "Yes. To help."

        Ah. Right. _Is that the-- no. Never mind. Forgive me._ Her gaze settled intently on a darkened corner, poured over the dust accumulating in the cracks. She bridled her mind, kept it blissfully empty. She was _not_ fighting disappointment. There was no disappointment to fight.

       He furrowed his brow, kicked at the detritus littering the ground. "I thought it wouldn't change."

       "And it hasn't. I seek only the same control of my thoughts that I would exercise over my words. Discipline is an essential skill."

       "Are you embarrassed again?"

       "N--" She caught herself mid-lie. _Yes. Yes Cole, I am. Please, do not ask of me the reason._ And that's really all she meant by it. Strange as it was, she didn't mind if he sensed the truth; only that she needn't answer for it.

       He lowered his eyes, stared at the floor, nodded. "We need to leave this place."

        _Why_? Oh. "Right. Envy," she laughed nervously, "I suppose that _would_ be the prudent course of action. So. What plan must we see enacted?"

       "Leave. Keep going. Envy expands. Stretches. We press farther, it might tear."

       "Ah, so that _was_ the plan, then. Just... keep going?"

       "We're inside you. In your head. I hoped you'd know the way."

        Warily, wearily, she smiled. "I had assumed we were in the Beyond. My basest attempt at escape constituted infuriating the demon. Hoping he would... slip up."

       "Yes? No? Both." He paused, pensive, before nodding. "Did it work?"

       "I made him rather angry, yes. As for what it accomplished, I know not. You are here; whether by happenstance or as a result, I am unsure," her smile turned to a frown. "We're inside me, you say?"

       His hands wrung feverishly. "Does it bother you?" That I'm here? "

       A snicker, a snort. _I would have it no other way._ "Hardly. It's only that..." she sighed, loathe to continue, but pressed herself all the same, "I don't _like_ me. It's... it's dark inside."

       "That's Envy. Twisting, tugging, lying. The truth is distorted, the image reflected warped, ripples on the calm surface rolling deep."

       "Is it? Well, there's no sense in worrying the matter now. Either it's of Envy's making, or it is not. Either way, you're right. We should go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sous de gens are unfortunates in Val Royeaux, living in the sewers beneath the city.


	15. Burn as I Burn (Long into an Abyss) - pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape? Nah. I'd rather have a good chat.

_Darkling I listen; and, for many a time_

_I have been half in love with easeful Death,_

_Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,_

_To take into the air my quiet breath;_

_Now more than ever seems it rich to die,_

_To cease upon the midnight with no pain,_

_While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad_

_In such an ecstasy!_

_Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—_

_To thy high requiem become a sod._

 

_Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!_

_No hungry generations tread thee down;_

_The voice I hear this passing night was heard_

_In ancient days by emperor and clown:_

_Perhaps the self-same song that found a path_

_Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,_

_She stood in tears amid the alien corn;_

_The same that ofttimes hath_

_Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam_

_Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn._

_\-- John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale_

       Another room. Another memory surely awaited. This time, however, Cole was there, and no memories came. He was suspended from the ceiling like some kind of awkward pendulous torch; a chandelier, yes. His hat, naturally, stayed put. Gravity did not apply here. Samara stared at the silly man, chuckling low in her throat.

       "You still call me a man," he stated.

       "I do."

       "Why?"

       "And why shouldn't I?"

       "Because I'm--" he wavered, fidgeted, set his jaw, "I'm not human."

        She shrugged. "Funny, that. Neither am I. Should I not be thought of as a woman, even so? Am I not worthy of the mere word?"

      "But you don't _know_ what I am."

       It was was true, and there was danger in it. "I don't care," she breathed out, a force of vehemence, and it, too, was true. "I know _who_ you are, because you have shown me. You are good, kind, true. Your words and actions reveal the goodness inside."

       His answering smile was small, unsure. She waved a dismissive hand, sensing his hesitance.

       "Let it alone, Cole," she said, her voice soft but commanding, "I think you a man because you _are_ one. No matter the lineage you sport, it does not define you-- only your actions can manage that. You should not let such petty trifles trouble your mind. Whatever lies in your past, it has long since passed. Whatever words are wielded against you in judgment, they are irrelevant. None know you, save you yourself. None know the struggles you have faced, nor do they know the choices you make, whether for ill or nil. The words are accordingly empty, lacking the weight of knowledge. It is of no consequence, dear man. Please, do let the matter rest. You are you, as you said, and there is no better thing to be."

       "Thomas told you that. But you weren't, aren't sure. You don't believe."

       "He was not _wrong, lethallin._ The burden of knowledge often lies in an inability to bring it to fruition. To apply it meaningfully to one's walk. Knowing the truth is well and good, but what you do with that knowledge... this is how you will be measured-- and rightfully so. I do believe, at the bottom of it. In everything. Too much, perhaps. I do not know what to do with it. I waver upon the threshold, terrified to set foot on either side. It is a sad place to be, walking that thinnest of lines. I would not wish it upon you. Take a step, Cole. It will serve you well."

        He frowned, chewed at the inside of his cheek. "But where do I step?"

       "Onto the path that holds your heart, _da'len_."

        "I don't know where my heart is."

       "Nor do I, Cole," she whispered, her voice gravelly, tone somber, "perhaps that is our journey; our chance to uncover. I will accompany you, if you'll have me. If you'll stay. You should not have cause to face the unknown by your lonesome."

       "You're afraid of the unknown," he stated, as though it were the most obvious of things. Perhaps it was.

       "I am," she agreed, deciding there was no shame in the fact, nor in its admission.

      "You hate it. More than most things you hate. It scares you like the darkness you feel inside. But you'd still brave that darkness with me. For me," he said coolly. It didn't sound like a question. She answered anyway.

       "I would."

       " _Why_?"

       She shrugged her shoulders, though she hardly felt indifferent. Ambivalent, aloof-- it was so common to her, to feel such ways, that the absence felt strange. Resounded like a knell through her soul with such aching _finality_ it nearly rendered her mute. "Perhaps my heart is not such a mystery to me, after all," she sighed, and saying it felt that much _worse_ ; for what did it speak of that accused organ, that it beat for none, that it lay existent, yet dormant and silent for all who graced her sight? "I hear it, at times," she murmured, clutching at the wisps of hope that wriggled treacherously just beyond her grasp, "like the crashing of waves upon the distant shore. I chase the sound with all my might, throw myself headlong onto whatever path might hear the chorus chanting nigh, might sight the foam upon the gilded strand. So far, the vision eludes me. That does not mean I will abandon the hunt."

       "You can't hunt your heart!" he laughed, his face wrinkling warmly with the motion, "Hunts are for killing. Beating, bruising, blood on the brow, crumpled body below; I won, I'm _better_. Hearts aren't like that! They're gentle creatures. Noble. Nugs hide from tramping boots and angry voices. If you're patient, though, they'll nibble food from your hand. Smiling souls. Gentle beings have to be coaxed to trust."

       "My heart is a _nug_ ," she stated incredulously, lips pursed, brow raised, "a _noble_ nug." His expression fell and she recoiled. "I'm not mocking you!" she clarified, speaking too quickly; her words all jumbled air and rushed syllables sped blurrily through penitent lips, "I _like_ it. I like nugs. It's just... funny."

       He didn't seem to find it funny-- to know why it should be considered funny at all. His puzzled expression was priceless-- scrunched up nose, knitted brows, crinkled eyes --right up to the moment Envy's furious roar reached their ears and his countenance shattered, slipped into a frown. "We _have_ to go," he urged, "hurry, hurry. Time's slipping away."

       She hadn't noticed it before-- not actively --but Samara really didn't care to hurry. She really didn't _care_ at all. She could simply stay here, warm and distracted by the carefree smiles and heartfelt laughter, and she would not lament the loss. There would be no loss to mourn, in fact. Throughout her life, Samara had merely existed-- survived --never lived. At any given moment after Thomas' passing, she had been-- at best --passably content. But this... it felt like infinitely more. Perhaps this was an invention of Envy's; a means to ensnare his prey with the sweet sedative of hope, diversion, _joy_. She could believe Cole an invention, as well, the memories false and supplanted, if only she could imagine a demon capable of constructing something so pure. _After all, what do demons know of joy, of kindness?_ Nevertheless, Cole was the one to break the spell, to bid her make haste, to remind her of the world that lay beyond the comforting confines of her own mind. She would not doubt him. To even contemplate it was unworthy of her. No, that was settled. Cole was no illusion. Now, all that remained was a reason to go. To _want_ to go.

       "Thomas," Cole whispered, now standing close, stooped beside her reclined form so that his head rest inches from her cheek; a move he seemingly accomplished in the blink of an eye, "many in the world were like him. Are like him. If you don't hurry, there'll be many more."

        _Shit_. He was right, of course. How had she forgotten so easily, so quickly? And after all that bluster about choosing the right path, no less! Steeling herself against whatever lay beyond, Samara took that first step.


	16. Me Nolentem Fata Trahunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another room, another vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title refers to a line in Latin from a Stevie Smith poem, Never Again. It, in turn, is a reference to a translation by Seneca the Younger, "Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt."  
> It was translated from Greek, and reads something like, "Fate leads the willing, but the unwilling it drags." Her adaptation of it, I think, goes more like, "Fate drags me, unwilling." Of course, my Latin skills are hardly developed.
> 
> "Never again will I weep   
> And wring my hands   
> And beat my head against the wall   
> Because   
> Me nolentem fata trahunt   
> But   
> When I have had enough   
> I will arise   
> And go unto my Father   
> And I will say to Him:   
> Father, I have had enough."

_Sages and chiefs long since had birth_

_Ere Caesar was, or Newton named;_

_These raised new empires o'er the earth,_

_And those, new heavens and systems framed._

_Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!_

_They had no poet, and they died._

_In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!_

_They had no poet, and are dead._

_\-- Horace, The Immortality of Verse_

       Envy was getting angrier. That much was obvious. As to the cause of his sudden outburst-- his increasing agitation --that remained a mystery. Cole, perhaps. Nothing else had changed, so far as her limited insight had gleaned of the situation. It shouldn't matter, she supposed, but she couldn't help the way she niggled, puzzling over the problem as though its importance was immeasurably profound. It felt it. Mayhap not important, but intriguing, certainly. The artless roars were become so routine as to border on mundane; an irrelevant nuisance, easily tuned out. _That_ seemed rather important, actually; it nagged at her meddlesome thoughts, demanding to be parsed and processed though she hadn't the time

       "He's angry," Cole stated, a hint of surprise to his tone, and it was strange, how he did that; spoke as though the unknowable was common knowledge, while the obvious was a shock to the system, "Something's wrong."

       "That works to our advantage, in any case. Do you know what, precisely, is wrong?"

       He shook his head. And, just like that, he was gone. Vanished in a cloud of smoke the hue of pitch.

       Samara sighed, shivered. The room felt cooler by degrees. A chill hung in the air, along with the white fog of her breath. As the temperature continued its slow decline, Samara felt the tremulous onset of her own descent. The breath was stolen her-- wrested from anguished lungs --ripped with a force that left her reeling. It hung briefly in the air; a writhing, amorphous mass possessed of unknown intent, but intent all the same. _Sentience_ , she mused. _The better with which to defile._

       The vapor eased into movement, first swaying, then swirling in a grandiose display, a whirlwind: centrifugal force threatening at once to disseminate and dispel. And so it did; both at once with a blinding rush that again deprived her of oxygen, leaving her dizzy and bemused. The room was barren no longer. Instead, it was filled to the brim with a sprawling courtyard, all white stone and gilt trim. An ornate, stately fountain perched at its center, spouting sprays of rainbowed mist into the crepuscular sky. Blatant exhibitionism. Flagrancy. Immense carven dragons lined the circular area, all in various states of decay. _Time levels all.. the greatest equalizer the world has ever known. It makes dust of paupers and nobles alike,_ she thought with a wry grin as she approached the nearest statue, stopping to wipe at the thin sheen of dust that graced its curves, _soon I will be naught but the dust that lines the statues of kings._ She stared at the pale refuse that dotted her finger, chuckled to herself as her forefinger smeared it evenly across the pad of her thumb. The thought amused her. Even long dead, she would desecrate and defile.

       Perhaps it served them right; those fool men who believed they might achieve immortality through the petty work of fleshly hands. _Where your treasure lies... so, too, will your rotting corpse, your stock-still heart, no_ richer _in death than it had been in life. Those who live to possess will be possessed only of the poverty of spirit; they will take that emptiness to their graves. There they will lie in nothingness, the poorest of men: masters who became slaves to their own idle passions, lusting after perceived treasures while missing the true worth that lay before them. Desire, divested of purpose, is the surest path to despair._ She reminded herself of this fact often; Samara had no interest in worldly baubles, no, but passion was hardly lost on her. Daily, she felt its pull. Its bite. Resistance was no easy task.

       Still, these ruined, graven idols had their charms. Masterful craftsmanship, if nothing else. Her hand grazed the impermeable flesh, took in its beauty. It wasn't stone at all, she realized. The bronze's patina had dulled its luster, leaving it the color of actinolite. Though the figures were crumbling, they were impressive. It must have been a marvelous feat, to create these giant sculptures-in-the-round. Freestanding giants of metal. Impressive, yes. Ill-advised, even so; how many poor, disheveled wanderers might have been fed with the funds required for a single of these ridiculous, beautiful works? How different the world might be today, if only people _cared_ a whit for one another. But that wasn't the statues' fault... beauty had its place. It also had its cost. How much more would the world pay? Not just for beauty, for greed-- but for the sake of its very lascivious nature, ever lusting, never sated?

       She sighed, withdrew her hand from the great fallen dragon. It was strange that her mind should take her here, to memories of a place she'd never been. People were milling about all around her, she noticed, and she found herself only vaguely appalled that it'd taken so long to see them. They busied themselves along their way, their essences shimmering around them and humming-- a disconcerting tune-- a cacophonous symphony of cruelty, distance, diversion, neglect. Some paused to chatter with their fellows. Others turned a blind eye to some withering unfortunate below their feet. _My, how the loveless insects scurry! How might it feel, I wonder, to crush them beneath our heel?_

       Samara hadn't the time to ponder whether these thoughts were her own. She certainly didn't recall ever using the bloody royal _we_... In the blink of an eye, chaos erupted within the ancient square. Curses echoed like a skipped stone upon a river. The people seemed, too, more like echoes of their former selves, hazy and indistinct were their forms as they darted to and fro, seemingly free of any guiding hand determining their actions. All energy, no will. Puppets clipped of their strings, still reeling with the act that wrought their freedom but finding no motion of their own; just lingering momentum in place of intention. Trails of light and shadow followed in their wake, staining the world with their very presence. All was aflame, she realized in hindsight, recognition dawning with painful slowness, clarity like a serpent's venom searing through dying veins. She looked on as an abomination entered the courtyard, towering above the cowering mortals, fire swelling wildly in its hands. She looked on as it was joined by another, and another. She looked on as men, women, children fell to the flames, their faces frozen in terror, twisted and malformed. _Ashes to ashes._..

       "Burn as I burn," she hissed through clenched teeth, not knowing the reason she spoke such madness. Such cruelty. With a potent paroxysm of shame gripping her heart, Samara turned away. Walked onward. She did not try to help the hurt, the dying. She could not help, after all. Even if she could reshape this world; could quell the flames and slay the monsters, it would not save them-- could not save them from themselves. _By their own hands is their destruction wrought._ They weren't real, besides. They were dead already. _And isn't that a familiar notion?_


	17. Once Upon A Dream

_Why should I blame her that she filled my days_

_With misery, or that she would of late_

_Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,_

_Or hurled the little streets upon the great,_

_Had they but courage equal to desire?_

_What could have made her peaceful with a mind_

_That nobleness made simple as a fire,_

_With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind_

_That is not natural in an age like this,_

_Being high and solitary and most stern?_

_Why, what could she have done, being what she is?_

_Was there another Troy for her to burn?_

_\-- William Butler Yeats, No Second Troy_

       Samara entered yet another room, still feeling her hope bleed from her in torrents like arterial spray from the last; the femoral artery slashed, the carotid pierced by blades. Cole's disembodied voice begged her make haste, and she was unnerved by how much the thought irked her. She was not some athlete performing before the crowd, lost in the triumph of great games in land afar. She did not need a second spectator to the sordid disarray of her own life. One was pain enough. She wished him there, wished him beside her so loudly, so brightly, that he must have heard her plaintive soul cries: for in a trice he stood, hunched at her side. It was a selfish wish, she imagined, but selfish she must be, for his presence was a source of comfort rather than guilt of any measure.

       This time, the stone walls shifted despite his presence, whirled and spun to another place, another time, like so much smoke and mirrors. Wasted hedge magic for a mindless crowd. It took her a moment to understand: recognition dawned slowly in the black span of her mind. It was the field from her dreams, dark in the moonlight with its molded shack leaning like a lone, broken tree, lightning-struck on the plains. She found herself looking for the cat-- presumably for some darkly masochistic motive --but found the grass empty by her feet. Was it still alive, or had the carrion-eaters claimed it? There were no bones to be seen.

       Cole's usual fidgeting had worsened, had seized into full-blown tremors that shook his thin frame. He looked as though he might stumble. "No," he whispered, voice cracking, "no, no. We shouldn't be here. Can't. It's wrong. Wrong. _Wrong_!" His speech broke into a scream that immediately lost its volume. Then he was murmuring, rambling under his breath so softly she could not make out the words. "I don't want to be here!" she discerned as his pitch again increased, "not again..." His hands were on his head, in his hair, pulling, twisting, breaking. He fell upon the ground as her dream-self had so painfully wished to do, and the dark sky was punctuated with the anguish of his wails.

       She knelt beside him, edged closer. Placed tentative hands on either of his shoulders, rubbed calming circles with her thumbs. Words of comfort eluded her, despite her desire. How could she fix an ailment she did not understand? She was not skilled at healing of any sort. Hadn't much time to practice it; was always the one being soothed, not the other way 'round. In her times of need, words had proven a sparse comfort, in any case. They could not change the truth.

       He leaned into her touch eagerly, desperate for the contact. Twisted to meet her, burying his face against the rough leathers 'pon her chest with sob after wracking sob. She breathed a rushed, pained sigh into his hair; tilted her chin to brush against the top of his head and slowly turned her own, nose nestling against his pale locks. Breathing in and out, measured breaths aiming for a calm she did not feel as she carded a hand through his hair, pressed her nose into his scalp, caught his scent but smelt only sorrow. It was a heady aroma-- synesthetic --like the heavy mist that precedes a storm, like the devastation wrought in its wake; the forest permeated by the fragrance of burnt, cracked cedar, tilled soil and the waste of worms, the lingering rankness of carrion but sweeter. She frowned, placed a cautious kiss gently against the skin of his crown. Words were insufficient. Words had so often failed her. She tried them all the same.

       "I'm sorry, Cole," she murmured, voice muffled by the softness of his rumpled hair, by the clammy pallor of his skin, "I am so very sorry for this pain. I would take it from you, if I could. I would bear it gladly in your stead." She meant it, she realized, actually _meant_ it. And then it hit her: words could not change the truth, but perhaps she could. Perhaps she could ease a fraction of his pain. Her eyes shut tightly against him, her body trembling with the potency of her focus. She cast this darkness away as she had in the dream, shoved it from him with all the force her riven mind could muster. Whatever consequences awaited her for such an action, for such impudence in a territory staked firmly by another, she would face them. It was preferable to this agony. _His_ agony.

       When her eyes flew open, the lonely field was gone, replaced by one sprouting with blooming wildflowers. The effort had taken much from her. It was good she was on the ground already, Cole in her arms, or she may have collapsed from the exertion. "It's over, Cole," she said in a hushed tone, her hand still tangled in his hair. "Look. Open your eyes," she smiled, noting that his were still firmly closed against her chest.

       Blinking through the tears, Cole pulled back hesitantly to gaze at the new field, at the flowers upon which they sat. "It is?" he gulped, shaking lessened, "it _is_." His ensuing laughter amazed her. The tone was still broken, yes, but the sound was true nonetheless. He withdrew from the edge of darkness with such readiness-- how was it even possible? Freed from the sight that pained him so deeply, his composure returned by leaps and bounds. She envied him this ability. No matter how many times she stood upon the edge only to return apparently unscathed, she felt wounded by the effort; the memory. As though a small chunk of her heart were rent with each attempt, as though enough forays into shadow would rob her entirely of its shape. Never was there laughter, broken or otherwise.

       Reluctance gnawing at her, she withdrew from him fully when he made to stand, tried to ignore the way his little sniffles beckoned her return. Her legs felt heavy as she, too, stood precariously, numb from the waist down. The upper half of her body, conversely, felt as though a torrent of repressed sensation had returned all at once amid the prickling burn of paresthesia. She was so tired.

       The loss of contact was notable, indeed. Despite its cause, it had seemed a brief pinprick of light amidst a swallowing sea of shadow, a well of warmth amongst the frozen wastes. It was long, she imagined, since she had really touched or been touched. Not like that, in any case. But it was good, that her assistance was no longer required. An improvement. It also gave her time to catch her bearings. And then she'd rather wished she hadn't. The field lay at the edges of a great, sprawling forest-- _the edges of the Planasene_. The spring rain had just begun to fall in earnest. _Curses. Curses and spite. This was it. This was the day._

        _Whatever consequences await,_ her mind mocked, _you will face them._ It was no less true now, of course, but she was still a damned fool. Since when did she face _anything_? From this day, she had been running. From this day and every since. She stifled the whimper that clambered at her trachea, pushed the racing emotions to the side. It was necessary that she remain strong. He needed her strong. _Besides, the quickest way past is through. You have to climb through hell to reach the earth, to see the heavens parted..._

       "Do you know how I got my name?" she asked of Cole abruptly, who was now standing a few paces from her side, wiping the remaining tears from his face with the tattered sleeve of his shirt. Smearing, more like, since the shirt was already wet with rainwater.

        He paused, stared at her thoughtfully-- searchingly --before nodding. "You picked it. Maple seeds swirling in the breeze, careless, happy, alive. So _free_."

      "Yes. I longed to be so free. On my second day with the Clan, I fled into the forest. I ran and ran, until I reached a clearing strewn with aging wildflowers. It was... is," she gestured at the surrounding landscape, "beautiful."

       "The day you first met Thomas," he supplied.

       "Indeed it was. We were like in age, he and I. He had been lost in the woods while making for Kirkwall-- had become separated from his own little clan. I found him here, at the edge of the clearing, weeping. Afraid. Rubbing at his reddened eyes, which were glossy with tears. I didn't feel so alone, then. As we spoke, the wind swayed through the branches, setting upon us a cascade of seeds. They danced so gently, wavering in the balmy breeze and, back then, I truly believed they were alive, that they danced only for us." At her words, a single seed fell from a moss-covered maple that loomed above, twisting slowly this way and that. She caught it 'twixt her fingers, rubbed it side to side. "A double-samara, the shape of the seed. Meant to be a pair," and as she spoke the last sentence, she severed the connection that bound the seeds together at the base, ripping them from one to two only to throw them to earth in opposite directions. How ought it feel, she wondered, to be earthbound by one's very destiny? Was it the fulfillment of purpose-- of promise --or a slow, maddening descent towards the unavoidable? She, certainly, felt no great achievement, no discovery of purpose. New life hadn't burgeoned from her fallen husk. "I don't know how I had this knowledge, but had it I did. He asked my name, the bold lad. And I told him it was Samara."

       "A name you wore ever since."

       "Mm. I hadn't spoken to any of the clan before him. The slavers did not know my name, or did not care. Neither did I. But it seemed the barest knowledge was retained... whatever was free of the hurt, the taint of my past."

       "But..." he chanced, seemingly afraid to meet her eyes as he looked very nearly everywhere but, "why is this place so _sad_? The memories should be happy?" No sooner had he finished speaking than the atmosphere grew smothering; desiccate and oppressive though the rain continued to fall, laden with sorrows shared. He _knew_ , she realized. He saw. He saw because she let him see. May as well: they'd both be seeing, soon enough.

       The wind began to moan. The branches quivered above, now soaked with the rain. The sky itself seemed to darken several shades. Samara would be heading back from the camp, now, after leaving the pup Revas with the healer. After hearing the hushed murmurs at the edge of camp, among a group of young men her age. After seeing the harsh glares cast askance at her direction, at others. After hearing the shouts and screams partway through the woods, when she began to sprint as fast as her legs would carry her. Many times, she slipped in the building mud. Once, she slashed her inner forearm across a shattered branch, midway from wrist to elbow, just shy of the vein. The scar remained to this day, a painful reminder of her failure. She had kept running, breathless and shivering, scared beyond anything she'd felt in her entire life. Terrified. It was the terror of knowledge that day, as much as of the unknown. They were equally fell.

       Samara shook in place, otherwise unmoving. She stared numbly into the forest. _It's coming. It's coming. Any moment now._ The anticipation of horror-- the abject dread of it --was torture. Her legs were beginning to tremble wildly, only worsened by her efforts to dampen the effects. Cramps formed in the straining, clenched muscles, but still she shook with fear.

      She gasped a painfully rigid breath of shock as a cool, damp hand encircled hers from where it hung limply at her side, long fingers curling to intertwine with her own. The shock turned to relief as she gazed sidelong at Cole, now so close at her side. Her fingers squeezed back, held tightly. Did not release. She murmured her heartfelt thanks without moving her mouth. It was funny, in its way. The thought of Thomas was what had gotten her this far-- had forced her to wade through the murk of her mind --had made the prospect of escape worth all the trouble. But now the thought of Thomas had her frozen, still as a stone. He was here-- would be here --and there was no way she would simply run. It wasn't real, and it was doomed, but still... it was _him_. What else could she do?

       "Cole," she croaked, voice shaking as much as her limbs, "I'm scared."

       Under ordinary circumstances, that would be a difficult admission. Under ordinary circumstances, it would sting worse than the fear. But this was as far from ordinary as one could get. This... this was dread. This was death.


	18. Once Upon A Dream -- pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What became of Thomas.

_The wind was on the withered heath,_

_but in the forest stirred no leaf:_

_there shadows lay be night or day,_

_and dark things silent crept beneath._

_The wind came down from mountains cold,_

_and like a tide it roared and rolled;_

_the branches groaned, the forest moaned,_

_and leaves were laid upon the mould._

 

_The wind went on from West to East;_

_all movement in the forest ceased,_

_but shrill and harsh across the marsh_

_its whistling voices were released._

_\-- J.R.R Tolkien, The Hobbit_

        Violent movement thrashed at the forest's edge. Samara stilled, down to the blood in her veins. Thomas burst free of the treeline, breath labored, sweat on his brow. If she could have frozen more, she would have. This was different. She had not seen this. Had not seen _him_ like this. Tears stung at her eyes. He was in so much _pain_...

       Bloodied leather braces bound each of his legs, encircling at the calves. With each wearied step he took, new blood trickled down to stain. Crimson tears wept through the breeches' cotton, mingled with the old brown that marred the leather; wailing remnants of the fallen. One last bid for remembrance. Like the blood that once sang beneath the flesh of the creature whose skin had been stolen-- torn from its very back --to fashion this nightmare in iron and warped flesh. Thomas winced as he ran-- hobbled. She wondered if he felt the weight on him, then, of so many anguished corpses; the chorus of cries that rolled through nights immemorial, black with the blood that ran, once, just as his.

       "Fen'harel's teeth," she whispered to Cole as salt stung at her eyes. She was shaking still, worse, grasping harder at his hand, edging closer to lean against his side without her mind's consent. No awareness of the moment remained. Only pain. "The nails go in," she explained, pointing to her leg with her free hand. Trying to remain detached, clinical. Failing. "Dig into the tissue. Damaging. Crippling pain. Then they force you... to run."

       A whimpering gasp escaped her as Thomas fell to the ground, doubled over in pain. Exhausted. Fumbling pointlessly at his legs. "The legacy of _my people_ ," she hissed, words dripping disdain. Venom slipped from elder maws just as freely, oozed slick from readied fangs with less contempt than spilled from her lips, than pooled corrosive in her heart. Her eyes were back on the treeline, which shook anew with the movement of a half dozen elves. They ambled out of cover at a leisurely pace-- there were five of them, it seemed --and they were _laughing_ as they went. Their shoulders shook with it, though she could not catch the sound. Her eyes narrowed to slits. Nails dug into Cole. Yes, this _was_ how death felt. It must be. She had died that day, at Thomas' side. She was dying again, and this time was worse.

       The wave of treacherous elves parted, making way for their bastard leader. It was him; Assan, heart-stealer. He, at least, was not laughing. He alone had the decency to treat this murder as the serious matter it was. Of course, it was not _decency_ that grounded him. It was rage. He drew his bow, loosed an arrow with startling swiftness. Samara was taken off guard, though she knew it was coming. Had to know. It found its mark deep in Thomas' left shoulder. Another quickly followed, this one embedding in his right.

       Thomas screamed at the impact, recoiled from the deep bite. Curled inward, fingers tearing at the mud. This, she could hear-- had heard. The sound penetrated, wordless pain, through the roiling fog that soiled her eardrums; thick smoke stirring with the pounding palpitations of her heart. She was still frozen, still useless. She hated it. Hated herself. But what could she do? Something. Anything. _They were dead already._

       She would be close, now. Stumbling through the stinging water in her eyes, the prickle-bearing vines snagging like wispy tendrils-- extensions of the grasping shadow --at her ankles, scratched and bloody... she would be screaming, too. Shouting his name against the hoarseness in her throat, feeling the tear there, less than all the other tears. The elves must have heard it-- heard her. They scattered like so many scavenging insects when the lights came on. All but Assan, the insect-king. Cruelest, bravest, blackness in his breast. Held close and dear, fostered, coddled. Like it held all his hopes, his nonexistent future. The child-devil who would be king.

       She might have gone after them, the scurrying host, might have followed to see better-- to haunt --the faces that grinned in the murk, but she could not leave him. Not now, not again. Such folly was what led her here. To the edge of the world, of sanity. The end of all things. Was her stillness more for fear, she wondered, or Cole? Was she truly too terrified to move, or just to lose the comfort of his company, the feel of his hand warmly holding her own? If she lost the contact... what _else_ might she do? But then Thomas groaned, desperately reaching forward-- away --to crawl through the tainted mud, grown yet more wet with his blood, and she was disgusted that her thoughts could wander. Even here, in this worst of all moments, her mind was not her own. Not in control. Not _right_. But who could say what was right or wrong? _Her_. She could. She knew it was wrong. As always, something was _wrong with her._

       The thoughts came and went in an instant. Time was muddled in this dream of dreams. _Dreams of hell._ Everything was slow as molasses. Everything was quick as lightning. And in that instant, lightning quick indeed, her young self broke the forest, breached the timeless barrier, ran for Thomas. Matted hair dotted with twigs, blood-stained arm, mud-stained legs, tear-stained face. Before she had seen, she had known. Yet when she had seen, she had not believed. Her heart stopped. Breath roared. The bottom dropped out.

       Assan saw her, grinned wickedly beneath his brown strands of hair. He was at Thomas, now. Kneeled before him, hand grabbing at the back of his hair with cruel force, blade drawn. The sixteen year old Samara dove for Assan, dagger at the ready, and twenty-two year old Samara was there with her. Inside her, replacing her, flesh and soul melded. But she was too slow. Assan's blade was already on Thomas, was already dragging through the flesh of his abdomen, eviscerating him. Her love, lying in the mud, hounded like an animal. Gutted like a pig. All for the crime of, what? Loving _her_? Loving a _monster_ like her?

       She hit Assan hard. They toppled backwards, off of Thomas, away. Thrashed and rolled, but her legs were crushing at his hips, her momentum hurtling him ever to the ground. At the end, she came out on top, straddling him tightly, blade thirsting. Assan tried vainly to get ahold of her attacking hand, to stay the onslaught. Her blood thwarted him. His hand slipped and crashed into her chest, instead, but it did not matter. Her hand came down. Hard. Dagger pierced his left shoulder, severing skin, muscle, sinew. It was all so easy... _different_. It came down again, this time into the right. _This is different._ If he was screaming, she did not hear it. Did not care. Bloodlust overpowered all. Vengeance was a potent motivation.

       Both hands grabbed for his collar, raised and dropped, slamming his head back into the mud where he belonged. The dagger seemed to move of its own volition, parting the leathers bound above his chest, the undershirt that lay beneath. _Murderer_. The word hummed in her mind-- no, it roared --and her blood-drenched hand moved to parody the motion that played out in her thoughts. She was carving the shameful word into his still-writhing belly, even as she held him down, pinned against the mud like wallowing swine meaning to skirt the brand. As she carved, though, she felt the selfsame brand mirrored on her own flesh. In kind, the blood welled beneath her leathers to spell out her own shame. She had not slain this _pig_ for righteousness, for justice, not really. It was not even her love for Thomas that beckoned the slaughter. It felt simply... right. _Good_.

       She was sneering at the beast beneath her, at the fear and pain in his eyes-- _do you know, yet, how it feels? I will_ show _you!_ \--when a pair of strong arms slipped around her torso from behind, meeting beneath the pits of her arms, pulling her back. _No, no, I am not done..._

       With all her might she struggled against the grip, but she was caught in the momentum, her body pulled tightly to the one behind as it twisted towards the soil, away, away, always away... her blade plunged into Assan, digging down and upward, curving to pierce a lung ere she lost her grip. He would not be walking away from this, not when Thomas... And then she fell, roughly back against Cole-- and it was Cole, she remembered now --her elbows digging into his chest even as she ceased her struggle, the dirtied blade fumbling uselessly from her hand. The wind was knocked from his lungs: coming to stir against her hair in a great rush, tickling at the edges of her ruined ear. Confusion screamed within her, but a strange peace was fighting it. Nibbling and gentle, cooling the fire in her veins. It was more than just confusion screaming inside, of course, and she wondered that she should fight it at all, _why_ these horrors were worth holding close. _Because_ , her mind achingly supplied, _if you forget, the past repeats. It always repeats. If you let the pain go, you dishonor him!_

       "You don't have to hold onto the hurt to keep his memory," Cole argued from beneath her, arms still around her chest though the grip was loosened, "he's close. He'll always be close. But he wouldn't want you to hurt. You _know_ that."

       "But I--" she began, searching for her argument, but finding instead the warmth of his breath on her neck; the strange but soothing feel of his hair on her skin, his arms around her body, "it hurts anyway."

       "I know, rabbit," he whispered against her, voice hoarse, "I know. You have to let it go. The bad, not the good. Hold onto the good, instead."

       She rolled off him gingerly-- not wishing to cause him more harm than she already had, already would --and plopped down at his side. She didn't move away, either, though. Fear of what actions she might choose, in the absence of his kindness-- his temperance --was strong. Her bloodied hands still ached to finish their work. Thomas also tugged at her consciousness, but she was afraid of that, too. It would be different. Uglier. "Don't leave," she muttered, turning to face him, head lifted shallowly above the mud, "please?"

       He nodded, head upturned towards the sky before he dropped back unceremoniously into the mud. She might have giggled, but her heart was far too heavy for such displays of levity. "I'm not going anywhere rabbit," he affirmed, and she felt a relieved breath settle her.

       "Today... this day," she corrected, edging closer to lean her head upon his shoulder, rain and tears burning red in her eyes, "we found Revas in the woods together. Before... before this. It was sad, how we found him, but..."

       "It was a good day," he agreed. "You saved him. Together. You made a difference. You helped."

       "Yes," she smiled sadly, skin crinkling against his overshirt, "I like to think so. His kin were slain by human hunters... not for meat or fur. Not for sport, either, I think, but fear. His litter mates were lost already, to starvation or exposure. Thomas had heard the tale around town, from braggarts at the inn. But he hadn't known there were pups... it's likely they had not known, either, else they'd have wrung their necks. Instead, they suffered a slow death at their mother's side. I like to think she brought them comfort, even in death. It is sad, but had it not occurred as it did, Revas might not have been spared. So, yes. I like to think we helped."

       "You did. You saved his life. Changed his world. Amended his fate."

       "At great cost. At the time, I thought it only to me, selfish and naive as I was. Foolish. But prices paid are never done so by but one hand... no man is an island, after all."

       "You wouldn't let Thomas take him," he stated, and she heard his breath pushing through pursed lips.

       "No. I would not. It wasn't safe, not for either of them. So I thought. So I reasoned. Perhaps it'd have been safer, after all. I stole away, left Thomas awaiting my return --Revas was weak. Very weak, would not have lasted long... I threw myself before the clan. Made promises. Swore oaths, that he might be healed. I would accept my _vallaslin_ , would bear whatever judgment they deemed worthy, so long as Revas would be healed. And he was. But when I returned..." she laughed weakly-- bitterly --without mirth but rather an undercurrent of agony, of shame, "you know what I found."

       "It wasn't your fault, rabbit. You couldn't have known."

       "Perhaps not. But I-- we --suffered the consequences even so. I should have known, I think. Should have been more careful. Should always have seen to protect that which was most precious to me, from the horrors of this broken world."

       "But you didn't know them then."

       "I suppose not. Not enough. It... it won't happen again. I know now." She stood in a rush, terrified to lose the momentum, to feel the will to stand at all droop and wither from her tense shoulders. Terror was a fitting homage to this day. Against the dappled leathers of her stomach her idle, anxious hand brushed, and found the material blood-stained no more. For but a precious instant, of course; her hand dripped new tainted blood to stain there, red against the dull, lifeless brown. She still remembered the young buck who gave his life for this piece: for her survival, and for Revas'. Still felt the regret, the weight of her actions like stones in the belly, dragging the condemned down evermore to rest on the riverbed... Sometimes, she wished the fur remained. She did not know if this was selfish, wrong. Perhaps it was merely irrelevant. It would feel better, she mused, if it remained. Like a portion of his life would go with her, more than the stretched skin, more than the ache of death.

       Her feet moved towards Thomas, pulled of their own accord, heedless of her fear. Ignorant of the boundless chasm that ruptured blood and bile in her squirming stomach. Careless. She had to follow. She always did.


	19. The Low Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life still sucks for Samara, and the quote is practically as long as the chapter... and I get even lazier with formatting, because time-sink!

_But one night the girl didn’t hear the train’s horn,_

_And the next morning she woke to an empty yard._ _The goat_

_Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm_

_Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain_

_Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone_

_Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called_

_To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called_

_And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling_

_Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides_

_Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat’s body_

_By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles_

_At the goat’s torn neck. Then somebody found the head_

_Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take_

_These things away so that the girl would not see them._

_They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat_ _._

_They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear_

_Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke...._

_But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have_

_Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they_

_Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job,_

_Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark._

_What they didn’t know was that the goat’s head was already_

_Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn’t know_

_Was that the goat’s head would go on singing, just for them,_

_Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen,_

_Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would_

_Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees_

_Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There_

_Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song,_

_The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother’s call._

_Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song_

_Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness._

_\-- Song, Brigit Pegeen Kelly_

       Samara had dreamt often of this moment. Amidst quiet sighs, listless moans, and thrashing peaks of sweat welling a flood down through the valley of her breasts, coating the skin in soft rivulets of painful heat, Thomas' name had graced her lips like a prayer unanswered. Those same lips that brushed against his skin, once, wetted instead with the memory of tears, with the permeating taste of rot. In her dreams, Thomas did not speak. Neither did she. Every time she tried, blood rushed from her parted lips in place of words, a slowly coagulating flow that brimmed from the blackened lungs contracting tight as knots in her chest. She never stopped trying.

Uncertainty and fear pulverized her innards as she stood above the quivering Thomas, who was now caught firmly in spasms; the last, agonized throes of death. As he grasped at his leaking belly-- hands slipping in blood and worse --she thought she felt quite distanced from the moment. Eerily detached. Terrifyingly so. But one does not switch from love and fear to _nothing_ so flippantly, she realized. One cannot. It was a coping mechanism, then. Step back from the fire and it will not burn so hot, singe so deep. But Samara was burnt to a crisp-- charred through and through --and knowing it so did nothing to quell the sting caused by the licking flames.

       So she stooped above him, gasped as her tears fell in streams upon the flesh of his cheek. All color was bled from them, like roses left to wilt long in the noontime sun. This was not the man as she wished to remember him, so broken, so lost... but again, this wasn't about her. Even when it was, it wasn't.

      Beside him she knelt, knees sinking in the red mud, and one shaking hand rose to cup his face, the other to grasp at his own, still slipping tremulous across his belly. "Forgive me, _ma'vhenan_ ," she choked, barely able to see this moment across time, this moment bridged by tears and loss, "this is my doing."

Thomas shook his head, trickles of blood meandering from his mouth as the muscles in his neck quaked and faltered. He swallowed thickly against the blood, Adam's apple bobbing like a lopsided fishing lure cast adrift in the sea. "Not your fault," he sputtered, holding tightly to her hand now, instead, "not theirs, either. Forgive. Yourself, them. Forgive."

     Of _course_ it was their fault, she wanted to say-- wanted to argue --but now that the moment was reached, she did not want to waste her breath on anything ugly, anything petty. That was new, too. He'd never asked her to forgive them. He might have, though, if they but had the time...

       "The wolf pup," he began, and she nodded furiously in response, "let him be your freedom, as you were mine. Name him for it. Take him, rabbit. Take him and go. Leave this place... leave the _hurt_ behind.

 That was right, wasn't it? He _had_ said that. Maker, why hadn't she listened? _Monster_ , the thought resurfaced, but this time she tamped it down. There were more important things than her own self-pity. "Yes," she said, nodding still, "I will, Thomas. I will. I'm... I'm so sorry!"

"Save your sorries," he whispered, voice falling as he turned his head to plant a shaky kiss on her palm, "not needed here. If I could... do it all over, I would. Over and over. Change nothing. Don't be sorry. I love you, Samara. Always have. Always will. _Always_."

" _Always_ ," she repeated, staring deep into his eyes as the life faded, dimmed, vanished in the pooled black of his widened pupils. Her chapped, bleeding lips pressed kisses to his forehead, damp and cooling. Her hands traveled down his face, closing his eyes for the last time. She closed her eyes, too. Nuzzled against the limp, wet mass of his hair, kissed again at his cheek, at his nose, his eyes...

She pulled back slowly, delicately, afraid of reality still being so cursedly real. Her eyes opened again, ready to take in his face once more before the journey began anew, but it was not his face her teary eyes registered, bloodied, broken, dead. It was Cole. Palpitations slammed against the wall of her chest, thudded echoes in the throbbing artery at her neck. The world felt off balance. And she felt faint, vision narrowing to darkened slits. Pinpoints, black on black.

Shrieking, she fall back into the mud, struggled against it but only worked deeper into its grasp. She whirled in place on the ground, mud and detritus digging into her nail beds as she scanned the horizon desperately, looking for him. She saw nothing. "Not again," she mumbled brokenly, hands tangling in her hair, spreading blood and muck across her scalp, her face, her neck. The initial shrieking turned to anguished screams.

"Cole!" she screeched, lungs and throat burning with the strength of it. "Cole," she repeated, a sad, hopeless plea. She was sinking deeper into the mud with each passing second, she realized, but she didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. She'd lost everything, she always would--

A large hand came to rest on her shoulder, and Samara about jumped out of her skin. This dream-hell was too much for her heart to bear. What new horror could possibly await? But beside her, clad in the same spoiled leathers, knelt no horror at all. It was Cole, alive and well. Whole. "Cole," she whispered, feeling the shock of his presence reverberate through her, turning just as quickly to relief.

She crawled through the mud-- no longer so deep, somehow --to embrace him, but felt the relief immediately twisting to anger in her adrenaline flooded system. "Where _were_ you?!" she hissed, and, rather than embracing him, she found her fists pounding feebly against his chest. "Where were you? I thought... I _thought_..."

He appeared more fazed by her words than her weak assault. His brows pinched together, nose practically wiggled with the motion of its wrinkling. "I was here, rabbit. I never left?"

"Don't do that again!" she cried, hands stilling, limp against his chest. She felt weak, useless, helpless. It was so _scary_.

"I didn't--" he began, but apparently thought better of it. "I'm sorry," he said instead, face shifting from confusion to a pained sort of sorrow that broke her already shattered heart.

She collapsed outright against him-- it was all too _much_ for her to handle --and wept; face settling to nuzzle in the crook of his neck, hands wringing in his dirty shirt. His body was rigid against hers, but she was too lost to care. "I-- I thought you were _dead_ , Cole!" she managed between great, wracking sobs, "I couldn't, I can't... I knew what was coming with Thomas. I expected it. Not easier, but... but not _this_ , either! Don't, ever... not ever... Do you hear me, Cole? Never! You can't leave. Can't die. I'd die, too."

His posture softened marginally against her, his hand coming to perch awkwardly on the top of her head. It made her smile. "I can't promise I won't die, rabbit..."

"You have to _try_ ," she nearly shouted, grabbing harder at his shirt, "promise me that you'll try. Fight. Never give up. Never. Give. Up."

She felt him nod against her, their bodies rocking a gentle rhythm with the movement. Comforting. Her hands relaxed once more, rose and fell, stroking lazily at his chest. Feeling the deep breaths beneath her palm, the steady beat of his living heart.

"I promise," he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not enjoying this? Please tell me why. I'll do my best to accommodate. Just be gentle, if you can. =p
> 
> Orite, 'cause I haven't said this before: Revas means freedom, Assan (I'm lazy and ridiculous) means arrow, and Alas'nehn is my lame guess at Earth's Joy.


	20. The Low Song -- pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the nightmare. Well, this nightmare, anyway.

_"If I had a heart, I could love you_

_If I had a voice, I would sing_

_After the night, when I wake up_

_I'll see what tomorrow brings."_

_Fever Ray, If I Had A Heart_

The gentle warmth of the moment did not elude her notice. She gazed affectionately at the man before her, the picture of kindness, sympathy, innocence-- but... it was odd. She looked at him and saw innocence openly writ upon his soft features, but she did not _feel_ it emanating from within. Not as she'd come to know it in hearts pledged young to the Chantry, in smiling children and scampering pups. No hint of sorrow stung those innocents, no true knowledge of the world lay smoldering behind their sparkling eyes; what they had experienced of this world, it did not touch them, laid no claim to their hearts. It reflected off them, like pebbles cast weakly at an iron shield-- but the deflection was not of their own making. Circumstantial, at best, in those who lacked either the knowledge for proper sight, or the affinity. In him, she perceived something more akin to the death of innocence, surging up from the depths of the basin to churn; poisoning the well. _His_ deflection was a choice. He chose innocence to ugliness-- chose to transcend mundane cruelty --but that did not damper his perception. That was only more beautiful in her eyes. To know horror but choose honor, to know cruelty but choose love, to know intimately how to hurt, how to destroy-- down to the very fibers of one's existence --but to choose, instead, to help... he embodied the best mankind had to offer, for his choices, for forgoing the temptation that so often goaded her... yes. He was all she aspired to be, all that she dared hope to attain.

He reminded her of the shadows, elusive but firm, intangible but unyielding... no: more, he reminded her of the color black. It was long held on faith, she had noticed (or, rather, the semblance of faith; that faux resignation that served best to cover inadequacy-- a lack of both imagination and perception --in those who deigned to think themselves pious but, in truth, were little more than empty vessels fearful of their own fallible, ignorant, and ignoble nature) that white was the color of purity. Samara found this notion absurd. True purity is incorruptible, not some weak-willed half-assery that folds and disintegrates the moment something dirty touches its frayed little seams. Black takes all, bears all, knows all: it absorbs the filth but is never tainted by it. Never loses its self. That is far purer, far more admirable. When white meets grime such as the world affords, it is forever altered: it is white no more. But black is black. The stains are there, but you'll never see them. Its essence is too strong. It will not be overpowered.

Not even in the presence of all this blood. He does not change. He is still him. He is beautiful, kind, pure. But he is not innocent. _A fine testament to his character, indeed._

"The sun is setting," he said abruptly, eyes boring knowingly into hers from inches away, "The shadows come out to play."

"So it is," she remarked, eyes still trained on him. Unwavering. "I'd have thought it night already," she chuckled under her breath, before finally gazing up at the red-streaked sky. It certainly felt dark all along.

The anxiety was brimming again, she realized. Something to do with the time of day, perhaps. Samara, unlike most she knew, counted the day's start when the sun first sank below the horizon. It was fitting to her lifestyle... her tainted view of the world. In any case, a new day was soon to begin. This troubled her greatly. When the last light of dusk breaks against the hilltops, when it winks, stutters and fades... she did not know what would happen, but something wriggling in her gut told her to fear it. 

Samara trusted her gut. Without preamble she stood, wiped her muddied hands along her breeches, and puzzled over just where they must go. Wherever it was, whatever it was... _it must be done soon_. 

She didn't have long to wonder. A new light flashed across the horizon far brighter than the failing sun, accompanied by shouts and cries in the near distance. The direction of the clan.

Cole was beside her, eyes darkly focused on the source of the din, undoubtedly perceiving more than she was yet able. The picture of worry. Her hand met the muscle of his right shoulder, just shy of the joint. Hovered there, barely touching, in the briefest display of gratitude and placation both. Then she was running for the camp, calling out behind for him to hurry. She needn't have. Cole was every bit as fast as her-- faster, maybe --and she couldn't help but appreciate his speed. Grace. Skill. 

As they ran, the light grew stronger. So did the screams. The forest was aflame, burning hot. The snap of twigs was strangely audible all around them, the charred, wooden flesh contorting wickedly beneath the heat's pressure. Unable to withstand the onslaught. Fire was worrisomely commonplace in her nightmares, it seemed. _And what does that tell you?_ Honestly, she didn't know. Doubtful it meant anything good, though. None of this did. 

When they reached the camp, it was an inferno. _Naturally_. Whatever remained of the sun's light was drowned in its rage. Burnt-out husks of aravels and corpses littered the landscape; crunched and crackled beneath the raging flames. Elves screamed curses as they ran from the blaze. Some paused their flight to aid their fellows, others sought their survival even at others' expense. Adversity truly was the greatest test of character. Her soul shriveled to see just how many failed. _And what are you, to judge?_

There really wasn't time for more self-pity, more aimless loathing. Her eyes scanned the ruin for its source. She saw it, then: a towering shadow hulking unharmed amidst the flames, voice cackling in laughter, a whip of energy, light and dark, blue and red, wielded in its hand. That voice beckoned. Tugged at her flickering consciousness. Eyes met, crimson to hazel. The laughter grew.

"Welcome, child, to your future," it hissed, laughter dying in the light. "See, what it holds?" 

Recognition dawned once more. It was _her_ , this vulgar monstrosity; this harbinger of destruction and death. A twisted version, hate-fueled and ugly, wreathed in flame. Large and imposing, dismal, cruel, and deadly. Everything she feared to become. She might not have known it, so different was the visage, but there was that same calling, that selfsame spirit-tug. She saw herself in the fire's fury. Impossibly different, but hard to miss nonetheless. A distorted mirror, but a mirror all the same. 

They both of them charged at once, the monster and the girl-- or were they not one and the same? Samara ran, muddy dagger drawn, praying it would not melt in the heat-- an arrow would surely be turned to cinders in an instant. Hopefully, she would not melt, either.

But the creature was not charging at her. Without warning its course diverted, heading straight for a stray elf. She recognized him: one of the young men from the field, though his name was never known to her. They had never spoken. He was young-- maybe even younger than she was then --fair of face, slight of build. And trembling with fear. It caught in his eyes, shivering specks constricting in the irises, bright and terrible in the fire light. 

Her body knew what was happening before she did. What was coming. Or maybe she always knew, but still fought; railed half-mad against the confines of her own construction, clinging to the hope of hatred even as it fled from her. Perhaps it was inevitable: always had been. Perhaps that dread sensation she'd come to associate with the touch of death had been something far more subversive the whole time, something far more dangerous: life. Whatever it was, that certainty was gone. Now all was in flux, whirling in her head and dancing in her vision: alight with possibility. Choice. 

_I always expected to be swallowed by the shadows,_ she thought at Cole as she rushed forward, hands numb, legs burning, _to disappear. Wondered if I hadn't been birthed straight into them, given up as a child to that hungry darkness. That is where I live, I thought. That is what I am._ She was in front of the lad, now, pushing him back, to the side, away. Anywhere but here. Anything but death. Arms raised, dagger drawn, ready. _But then I open my eyes..._ Not ready. _See the world..._ She wouldn't, couldn't deflect the blow, not like this. _So bright..._ Not head-on. _Alive, shining..._ No time. _Beautiful..._ Wouldn't make it. _And I know I've been here all along._ Not quick enough: too late. Let fate come. 

The shadows indeed swallowed her up, but it was not at all as she expected. She was caught in a vortex of sight and sound, dark and light. The clang of metal rang hard in her ears like clacking cymbals. Smoke filled her nose-- hot and acrid --stung tears to blot out her vision. She blinked furiously, but saw only the swirl of steam and ash, and the blinding water singing in her eyes. Smelt burning hair; tasted it, stuck in the back of her throat with all the other overpowering scents of horror. How did mages stomach it, anyhow? Was it always like this, always so-- _no, not important. What..._ She kept blinking, kept willing her eyes to pierce through the thick, clinging layers of smoke that still ran so hot all around. 

Cole was panting behind her, wet hair in his eyes, arms encircling over her shoulders. Blood dripped slowly down his arm, his wrist, his fingers, sank darkly into the clothing at her chest. They were at the edge of camp, away from the impending melee-- from her death. Confused. She was confused. But more than that, she was guilty and afraid. Sacrifices were not to be made: not for her, never for _her_. What if it had gone worse, what if he had... _what if_? Her nightmare-self sounded confused, too. It roared with rage at it. 

"We have to go, rabbit. Now. We're close. Very close." He let her go, and the both of them stumbled, tipped forward. Caught themselves. They were exhausted. 

He had more cause, she lamented. "Close to what?"

"The end. Freedom. Hurry!" He grabbed her hand tightly, tugged her forward. They ran together, skirting the camp, heading for the far side. He led them away from the battlefield. The monster-Samara had taken note and was pursuing, close behind. The forest caught fire wherever it went. Samara only looked back once. 

The trees were thinning, though, giving way to something... familiar. The sonorous _toot_ of a Pygmy Owl tickled her ears. Fox Sparrows' hollow chirping rang in the distance. _Very_ familiar. She saw it, not far ahead, fading into view as though through a sharp fog: the place this had all begun, the dank walls of Therinfal. Envy was waiting. He was angry, still. She could read it in the rigid posture as they approached, saw it in the harshly set angle of his shoulders, the stern tilt of his jaw. But the rage was tempered, now. More... resigned?

He was looking through them, eyes firmly fixed on the near-distance behind with keen interest. Keen, but oddly aloof. She didn't dare look back. _Not now. So close._  The sun was nearly vanished below the horizon. Cole spun abruptly, hand loosing from hers as he sent her hurtling towards Envy. He did not follow. _Wait! No, no, NO! Cole!_

Her mind reeled. She tried to dig her feet into the ground, but found no purchase on the cold stone. Should have just dropped straight down, she realized too late, cursing hindsight. It inevitably became regret. As she toppled painfully slow over the wretched steps, she wondered if he hadn't known the regret would forever consume, that the pain would become worse than any number of deaths?

"It doesn't matter what happens to me," she thought she heard him call from behind, voice strained, " _Go_!" 

She hoped she heard wrong. She prayed for it. But then all was bursting brilliance: a blinding yellow light, and she felt herself floating away, drawn inexorably far, forward. She could not take it back. Maker, how she wished she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how often I check here for updated fics. It's rather sad. Eventually I grow despondent, and decide to toss out an update. :3
> 
> This is a silly cliffhanger, since it really isn't one. It's not like I'd just ditch Cole, or anything. Well... no. I wouldn't. *I'm* not a monster.


	21. Falling from Time -- pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra is suspicious, and Varric is... Varric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to write more chatty filler. Kerfail.

_Very old are we men;_

_Our dreams are tales_

_Told in dim Eden_

_By Eve's nightingales;_

_We wake and whisper awhile,_

_But, the day gone by,_

_Silence and sleep like fields_

_Of amaranth lie._

_\-- All That's Past, Walter de la Mare_

Samara came to herself with a vicious jolt that rocketed flips through her gut, sending hot shivers of pain outwards from that teetering epicenter. The new sensation of _return_ swelled in her ears, humming, screaming, flying, an aimless rhapsody bereft of its instruments. All air, noise, no notes. Her tongue was swollen cotton in her parched mouth, her eyes watering pincushions. High on adrenaline but falling from time, the weight of a thousand score seconds colliding all at once inside her: a mishmash of stolen, frozen moments breaking through, becoming real, becoming now. Each of those moments was a _new_ now, a new past, a new then. It was bewildering. Time had stood still, rewound. And it was all catching up. Faster than light, than sound. Outpacing her hammering thoughts.

She was standing on the steps where she'd fallen, Revas whining, pacing circles beside her. Strange, that all it took was a touch. A touch... Her heart clenched. _Cole_.

"See what you've made, girl? See what you've done to me!" Envy's voice boomed in her mind, drowning out the soundless cacophony. " _Manipulative, destructive bitch! Wicked thing!_ You've ruined everything. _Everything_... It isn't fair!"

Revas stopped his pacing; stood deadly still at her heel. It was good that he was here... it was also bad. She did not know of what this demon was capable, when in its corporeal form. But Revas was a warrior, just like her. He was trusty, strong, wise. He would not charge into battle without cause or command. Sending him off would be inexcusably selfish.

She shook her head quickly, as though it would shake the nightmares loose from their dull rattling in her skull. Closed her eyes, bit her lip. Ignored Envy's subversive words. "Where is he?" she growled, teeth clenched, body stiff but quivering with suppressed rage, "What have you done with him?"

"Him? Ah. Of course." The voice was no longer echoing in her mind. Her eyes strained, focused feebly on the ground that seemed to be its source. " _It_ is fine, wretch. Your... little demon. That--" it rose through the stone before her feet, spindly arms contorted, massive, flabby buttocks and disfigured visage dangling like spittle from a rabid maw, "is more than can be said for you."

She edged backwards, bow drawn, arrow swiftly if haphazardly nocked. But the beast disintegrated, drawn into a tenuous stream of blackened smoke that bled into the green portal at the room's center, before her. Smoke not unlike _his_... no. She'd been down that cursed path before, swore she would not step foot on it again. No monster would cause her to doubt her faith. That's what demons did; they lied. They could never be trusted. By that reasoning alone, Cole was no demon. And even if by some twisted happenstance he was, had been... it did not matter. She had meant none so... so... _Perfect? Kind? Loving? Worthy?_ Not since Thomas, if even... _stop_.

It hurt to think, cast shadows in her mind like only the brightest lights ever could. Was it a betrayal? Was it cruel? But how could something so good ever lead to cruelty? Perhaps in her, even the best could. But Thomas would understand. Somehow, he always did.

Samara sighed, let the bow hang ready in her hands. Cole's origins mattered little. His history was his own. She would not begrudge him it-- after all, he accepted her and hers unconditionally, however dark it may be. The very least she could do was extend the same courtesy.

"Herald?" a voice called out from behind, brimming with uncertainty. A hand came to rest firmly on her shoulder. Cassandra. Right. She wasn't alone here, though she very much felt it.

"Well," Samara stated, struggling to recall how to speak properly-- how inflection and nuance _worked_ \--"that was... unnerving. "

"Indeed. But we cannot rest on our laurels now. We must destroy this... demon."

"Envy," Samara supplied. She did not care for how close the Seeker was standing, how much her attention was rapt: studying. Searching.

"Yes," Cassandra stated evenly, hand sliding down Samara's arm appraisingly before letting go. Not unlike one might survey a wounded beast, uncertain of its motives. "Envy." Still, the Seeker did not back away. Circled, instead, like a predator sizing up its would-be prey. How utterly worrisome... _problematic_.

"It was in my mind," Samara answered the unasked, a grimace on her lips, "but worry not: I am myself."

"Obviously," Solas bluntly interjected. "We saw the demon with our own eyes. Had you been possessed, only one would remain. Or, perhaps, it would wear your form even as it stood before you." He, she noted, was also watching her closely. They all were, so much so that she might have wondered if she weren't still in the nightmares, but alas. She knew better.

"Right," she replied quickly, feeling wholly discomfited, "let's go." She entered the room where the uncorrupted Templars awaited, giving Ser Barris a cursory nod. She avoided the Seeker's harsh glare. For her part, Cassandra seemed unconvinced. Whether she still thought her possessed-- or somehow altered by the experience --Samara did not know.

Let her wonder, then. It's not as though any amount of words could lessen her suspicion. Years of training-- and living --had seen it ingrained. Samara could relate. Could respect it, even.

 _Shite_. Barris was speaking, and she had heard little of it. He was a good man, she surmised, and had been through much. Clearly he opposed the raw brutality demanded by the so-called Lord Seeker in Val Royeaux; physically assaulting a Chantry Sister, of all despicable things! Now he was faced with betrayal and darkness surely unparalleled in his eyes. He deserved better of her.

Truthfully, she had paid him little mind until now. A saddening thought, that the people she was sworn to protect were already deemed beneath her notice. They were simply too many, too loud, too much-- she was but one person, and frankly unused to meeting a single stranger, let alone hundreds. She must try harder, even so. Excuses did not save lives.

Well, she supposed she caught the gist of it, anyway. Save these people, kill those ones; protect the good Templars, kill the bad. Aid them in fulfilling the ritual's requirements. Simple enough, in theory. She could always ask Cassandra to fill in the blanks, if the need arose. It'd be bad form to admit her absent-mindedness: would reflect poorly on the Inquisition. Really, no one needed to know her mind was addled with worry over a purported demon. They undoubtedly had cause enough to question her leadership.

"The Inquisition shall see it done," she told Ser Barris, striving for a commanding tone. Unsure of her success. She spared a backward glance towards her party, noting but ignoring Cassandra's questioning glare, and then they were off.

 

* * *

 

The winding corridors and sprawling courtyards of Therinfal were littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, Templars of light and Red alike. It wasn't all that different from the nightmares. _Except this is real._ That alone made the two harshly incomparable.

Cassandra was still glaring, still appearing moments away from asking some dreaded question or other. They'd reached a brief lull in the battle, and Samara figured it was as good a time as any to face the Seeker. It would seem this confrontation could not wait. Maker, how she despised confrontation of the verbal sort. But today, it seemed, was a day for facing fears.

"Something on your mind, Seeker?" Samara asked, aiming for nonchalance as she backed into a nearby corner-- _less threats to mind, this way._

"Yes," Cassandra breathed out, tone unduly harsh, "I have been puzzling over the Envy demon's words to you."

Samara sighed, crossing her arms. "Have you now."

To her utmost surprise, Varric interjected, clearly trying to keep tempers from flaring in the middle of a bloody war. "It's a _demon_ , Seeker," he chuckled, running a hand through his hair, "demons lie."

"That they do," Cassandra deadpanned, eyes fixed on Samara, "but that's not _all_ they have been known to do." Her hand had been hovering over the scabbard of her recently sheathed blade, whether for protection or comfort, Samara did not know. But she did not miss it. Apparently, neither had Varric.

" _Enough_ ," Samara hissed, "if you have something to say, Seeker, I suggest you say it."

"Very well, Herald. The demon's words were troubling indeed. I do not know what occurred in your... in your head. None of us do, and I suppose it does not matter; I have no wish to pry where I am not wanted. But. I need to know that our leader has not been... compromised by recent events."

"Then you shall know it," Samara said, firmly as may, "You have no cause for concern. I am myself. Nothing has occurred to dissuade me from my course-- from _our_ course. You have tried me with a great task, and I intend to see it done. Put your mind at ease, Cassandra. Envy sought only to sow discord among our ranks: do not let it succeed."

"I will take you at your word," Cassandra answered, carefully accenting each syllable. "I ask only that you remember why we fight... and the price of failure and deceit both."

"Are you _threatening_ me, Cassandra?" Samara chuckled, strangely unoffended, "Be at peace: I know the cost. I have seen it paid in blood. I will not see it again."

"Good," was all the Seeker said before turning back to their task. Varric, Samara thought, breathed a small sigh of relief.

As Cassandra led the way, the dwarf hung back to walk close by Samara, who was warily traipsing forward. "That was some serious shit, Snow. Our stoic Seeker'd been eyeing you this whole time. She _sure_ means business." He sighed, rolling his shoulders and pitching forward in an awkward sort of stretch. Were it not for his short stature and low center of gravity, Samara feared he might've fallen. "Too uptight, if you ask me. Bet it's been awhile since she's had a roll in the hay."

"Varric," Samara grunted by way of chastisement, though she could not suppress a grin.

"Ha!" he chuckled, lips thinning as he gazed her way, "You really don't say much, do you? 'Cept when you do."

Samara blinked, confused. "Is it not so for everyone?"

He shrugged. "Not really. People either talk or they don't. Not much middle-ground: don't ask me why. Damned if I know."

"You should not speak of damnation so lightly, Varric. It is no laughing matter... and words, they have _power_. I would urge you take care with yours."

"Well, shit, Snow. I don't know what's got our Seeker so riled up: you're straight as an arrow. Too full of piety for any demon to get hold. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you needed a good tumble more than our rigid Seeker."

Samara stopped in her tracks, mouth just barely agape. That had caught her completely off guard. It really shouldn't have. This was Varric, after all.

"Don't say it: _you_? A virgin? What's the world coming to! How old are you, anyway?"

She gawked. "I am twenty-two years of age, dwarf. I fail to see how that is relevant to one's access to my genitals. In fact, I do not believe the world would be in any way better off were I a simpering tart, instead."

"Now, now. Don't get angry, kid. I'm just saying, everyone deserves a bit of fun. Life's been, well, it's been complete shit. You deserve to be happy. From what I've seen, you're not."

"I did not know there was a correlation, if in fact there is." She tilted her head, pensive. "I lack my hymen, if that appeases you."

"Whoah, whoah. That, Snow, is what we call an _over-share_. I really didn't need to know that, okay?"

"I don't understand. It's acceptable for you to question my sexual activity, but I should not mention my anatomy? Why?"

"Y'know, I'm not sure. But that's how it is: I don't make the rules."

"Your culture is strange."

"You're telling me. But that's not just _my_ culture. Actually, I think it's pretty universal. The Dalish are different, huh?"

"I... I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. My contact with the Clan was very limited. Mostly, I spoke only with my Keeper. She was not so contradictory with her words. We spoke plainly. This... this confuses me."

"Yeah, I guess it's complicated. Never thought about it before. Second-nature, or something like that."

Cassandra consistently glared back at them. At this point, they'd lagged far enough behind that she was forced to halt her march. "Are you coming?" she shouted, her foot tapping at the stone in irritation.

"Not bloody likely," Varric grunted under his breath.

"Yes, forgive me," Samara called back to the Seeker, resuming her long strides. Varric kept pace beside her, though it took him more steps to do so. "It would behoove you to know, dwarf," she whispered, "that I am aware of a good deal of your vulgar euphemisms. I don't understand them: they are greatly more crass than the words they hide. But I am aware of them, nonetheless."

"Good to know," he laughed. After a moment's respite, he spoke again. "How'd it happen, anyway?" he prodded, to her amusement and consternation both.

"So now we may speak of it, hmm? As you wish. I do not know: it was not of my making, if that is your question. I have a very strenuous lifestyle. By the time I learnt what a hymen was, I knew only that I lacked it. I have, however, seen illustrations in books. It is a strange, ungainly thing. I do not know why men should so delight, as I hear, in... _deflowering_ virgins. In fact, it looks nothing like a flower. Flowers, at least, are pretty. It looks more like a shriveled--"

"You know what, never mind. Let's go back to not speaking of it. Ever. Please."

"As you say, dwarf. You are most contradictory."

"So are you, kid. You go from zero to _hymen_ in seconds flat. You got me stumped."

"I aim to please." Her lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, even as she avoided his face, opting to stare ahead and to the side. "If I am to understand correctly, Varric, you are prone to immortalizing far less _decent_ descriptions of the female form on parchment."

"Ugh," he groaned, and she could hear him shifting about at her side, "That's _not_ not speaking of it."

"I do not understand this. If it's fit for you to write, why not to speak?" She kept her chuckle firmly under wraps.

"Are you _serious_ \--" he turned to look at her, brows raising at her clearly amused expression, "Oh. You're not. Whaddya know? You've got a sense of humor, after all. A weird one."

She scowled. "You knew this already."

"Yeah, yeah," he huffed, increasing his pace. "Come on, there's lots of bastards that still need killing."

"Hardly a suitable deflection," she called after him with quickening steps, "but I will accept it."


	22. Falling from Time -- pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara and the gang fight stuff. Ugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kill this chapter. Kill it with fire. I never want to see it again. =3

 The quest to rescue the veterans was nearly as simple in practice as theory. The battle was certainly heavy, at times, but nothing they could not handle. They were, after all, well prepared. Thank the Maker for that.

The real battle was soon to come. Envy. He would be ripped from hiding, and he would be put down like the cowardly cur he was. No more deception. No more games. A thrilling, if terrifying, thought. Her mind was already crafting illogical associations between Envy and Thomas, was seething with the notion that defeating this demon would accomplish... _something_ in Thomas' name-- beyond, of course, ridding the world of yet another merciless parasite. In reality, there was no association: no tie other than the bitter bonds of memory and lie. But she supposed a fool's motivation was better than no motivation at all.

Samara and her companions had escorted the surviving templars as best they could, along with a hefty amount of stored lyrium-- had cleared a path through the seemingly endless fray --enabling their retreat to the impromptu base that hid Envy within the swirling emerald vortex at its center. Well, four vortexes, more like-- but what did that matter? Once you'd found one way to a painful death, what was three more? The difference seemed purely academic.

With her wordless assent, Ser Barris drank deeply a draft of ice-blue lyrium. The templars sank their hulking swords into the cracked stone floor, and the ritual was begun. Demons and corrupted templars alike poured from the portals. They broke in waves upon the guarding templars, only to be felled by magic and sword, bolt and arrow. Still, with each renewed assault the templars were pressed farther back, their ranks thinned.

Samara drew upon the monstrosities repeatedly, aiming for the neck, beneath the arms... wherever their armor was weak or lacking. Yet through it all, she was painfully distracted. She could not focus: Cole was nowhere to be seen. What had become of him? Was he truly well? Or... did he _leave_? No backward glance, no parting words...

The thought froze her solid. For a moment, her vision wavered, wet: bright spots flooded her eyes, shimmied like far-flung stars in her periphery. Dizziness nearly overcame her. She recovered quickly, blinked the painful possibility from her mind. But in the heat of battle, a moment was all it took. A red templar, clad in clanking, overlapping plates of mail that ought to have loudly announced his approach, was at her flank. His longsword was raised, falling in artless increments towards her neck with a brute force that would surely topple her, if she even managed to deflect the blow. Revas was tugging at the templar's heel to seemingly no effect. Perhaps his teeth could not find purchase on the slimy scales of the man's armor. Perhaps the man was merely that strong. Perhaps he felt no pain at all.

She hated the slowness of these fateful moments; the way her mind tipped and spiraled out of control like an off-balance child's toy-- a spinning top gone too fast for its own good, sure to fall --the way her body ambled along like nothing was amiss, like one wrong move wouldn't send all her hopes and dreams crashing down into oblivion, never to be realized. Would the last pitiful scraps of her life be auctioned off to the highest bidder, or would they be donated to the needy? Would they wind up in some abandoned city gutter, undiscovered for who-knows-how-long, would some child of the future find them, puzzle over the story they told? Or would they gather dust in the dark, forever unknown, or worse --rot in the midden heap like common garbage, unwanted? Worst of all-- what would become of Revas in her absence? It was too terrible to even contemplate. 

The thoughts were not full-fledged, were merely flashes of light and color blooming behind her eyes: there and gone, just like she might be, in but an instant's time. Her useless limbs were still acting out the previous motion of her mind's command; she had loosed an arrow into the bulk of the mêlée, and her arms were falling ever-so slowly back to her side. Her mind was fully aware of it all. Her body was a tragically ignorant lump of flesh just waiting to be clove in twain. A fool lamb in line, bleating happily before the slaughter. One thing, though, she knew. It hit her hard, the knowledge gained. Nearly as hard as the blade was about to: she didn't care if he had left her here to die. Whatever his motives, whatever his choices, Samara wished him well. So long as Cole was alive somewhere, happy and free, she could die in peace. It wasn't a wise thought, really. Peace was bad for battle. It practically assured her impending doom. But that, too, didn't seem so bad. Not if he was well. 

She leaned away, dipped downward, but it was a weak effort. And there wasn't time to go for her dagger: she'd wasted most of that on idle thoughts. _Stupid, silly peace. You'll be the death of me, it seems_.

The crash of metal, spurting blood, addling confusion. Time sped up. Was she dead? She didn't _feel_ dead. Then again, maybe she'd been thinking of it all wrong: maybe death didn't have a feeling. Maybe it just-- just was. It's not as though she'd died before. How would she know? Samara gasped feebly-- she could still do that, it seemed, still had breath to draw --and then she looked up. Cole stood above her, twin daggers thrust at opposite angles through the thick trunk of the attacking templar's neck. Revas had stilled at his side. 

"Cole?" she nearly whimpered, breath caught in her throat, "am I... Am I dead?" She still wasn't sure. After all, he was _here_. That seemed too good to be true. When someone left, they were gone. They didn't come back. But he had, at least once before, hadn't he? 

"No," he said, turning to face her. His blades withdrew from the broken templar's throat, leaving the dead man to topple gracelessly to the floor. "Not dead. But you tried."

"I--" she sputtered, struggling to find her bearings and regain her composure, "I did no such thing! You distracted me! You weren't here! I... I didn't know..." Revas whined softly as he trotted to her side. 

"I'm sorry," he answered quickly, looking at her too much, too deeply, eyes-to-eyes until it seared her, "it was harder than I thought." 

She frowned at that, averting her gaze with no small measure of shame. "You saved me," she whispered as she stood, still not looking, "why do you keep doing that?"

"You're worth saving." 

_I'm not_ worth _anything_ \-- "I'm sorry," she relented immediately from the gut-reaction, guilt pulling taut at her insides, "That was unkind." If he thought her worth the effort, how _dare_ she disagree. 

He nodded. "And untrue." A pause, hesitation evident in the slight, wayward tremor of his breath, "You wonder what it's like to be alive, to be real. You shouldn't. You already know." 

_But everyone else is so different, distant, foreign. It's wrong in my heart, tickles but burns._ "How can I be real, if they are? Opposites should be opposite. Alive, dead. Real, fake."

"I'm different," was all he said.

"And you're real... Yes. I see. Well now: you've saved me. What's say we save the world?" 

"You're different again. From before, I mean. But yes, let's help them." 

She smiled softly, shifted her stance. "I'm different because you're here," she said under her breath, grabbing a free arrow from her languishing quiver. 

He moved close to her side, drawing his blades over the skin of his breeches. Blood smeared but disappeared into the dark fabric. "Diction shifts with the wind; a word, a thought, the course is altered." Samara cocked her head, listened as he spoke. Did not interrupt. He spoke so quickly, so rushed, she had to strain to make out the words. "Like a tree falling into a heavy stream, the flow diverts. Diverges. Like whispers in the Fade. It is what you make it, will it, want it. The bigger the word, the more to hide behind: the harder for them to see it isn't yours. Do you say it because it's true, or is it true because you say it? It stays true, either way. But you don't say it, not anymore. And you don't stay you. A new day, a new self. Masks on masks, where have the faces gone? Which skin is my own? There are so many. And you hear so much. So much it hurts. You or me? The answer is yes..." He paused, drew a shaking breathe. "Each morning, the world sings your pain. Pains so old most have forgotten." His voice grew low in pitch-- almost menacing. It sent a chill down her spine. "But I _never_ forget." 

Which _I_ was him, which her? Why couldn't she tell? She wasn't sure what to say-- that didn't happen often. Whether she spoke or bit her tongue, Samara always had words swarming in her mind like a bustle of wasps, unsure whether to attack or retreat. Now, her mind was empty. And Cole was beside her no longer; was vanished into that telltale plume of smoke. She felt cold; frayed at the edges, wet inside. Familiar but not, like everything lately. Strange, in either case.

The feeling was forgotten when Cole reappeared several paces away, daggers spun outward in an arc to meet the nearest reddened templar. A smirk tugged at her face, and she drew her bow, eyes on him. Always him. He carved a swath of death through the enemy with such graceful poise it brought a flush to her cheeks. Swift, deadly, but kind. She couldn't help but marvel. She picked off the monsters that yet lurked behind him: so long as she stood, he need not watch his back. She would see to that for him. But then Revas charged after him, somehow keeping pace with Cole as though he _knew_ where the man would appear whenever he vanished. It seemed quite possible that he did. Her attention was divided. It hurt to have so few eyes with which to keep watch.

It wasn't long before the enemy's ranks started to thin instead of their own. Samara had been low on arrows for some time and, though she had often replenished her stash with reclaimed arrows from the nearby fallen, the supply was dwindling. Many were broken or irretrievable. Better odds than she had in the forest, still: since she'd joined the Inquisition, she had gained a laudable amount of a sturdier construction; arrows tipped with metals finer than she could acquire alone, even through her meager, rare attempts at trading. They did not bend or break so easily. Still, many of her arrows were too far into the field of battle to reach with any ease. It would be unwise to attempt and, she found, she did not want to, anyway. She was far too thrilled by the idea of fighting at Cole's side, much as she often yearned to do battle with Revas at her heel. She could restrain herself no longer.

Samara shouldered her bow and charged into the bulk of the battle that remained-- small though it was. A handful of enemy troops huddled together: two armored templars, three rangers behind, and a single hulking demon taking up the middle. Now that she was closer, she discerned that perhaps the last creature wasn't simply a demon, after all. An abomination, maybe, if the distinction could be made-- if it mattered at all. Magic, she supposed. Magic mattered. She clicked her tongue-- a hollow sound --in warning and order to Revas, who returned swiftly to growl behind her right flank.

For a moment, all was silent. Then the demon-- abomination, whatever --the Maker-damned _thing_ hissed through gnashed teeth like a leashed hound, beady eyes trained on her. "Why do you fight?" it gawked, whispers like water flowing her way; the voice a gurgling, sickly sound that seemed to echo in all directions from its awkwardly tilted head-- really, it didn't seem possible for a neck to incline so _deeply_ \--"why do you resist us? I do not understand." 

Samara had quite had her fill of demons, she thought, and they had yet to draw out Envy. _This_ brainless peon did not deserve an answer. He would find it in the pull of her blade across his already mangled flesh.

She was thankful when Cassandra sounded the charge. The Seeker could handle the two fallen knights: for a time, at least, and some good templars still stood to aid her. Eyes meeting Cole's, Samara nodded in the direction of the archer poised at the far left of the hobbled little formation. She clicked three times, more stilted than the last, and Revas circled to flank the archer at right.

Samara rushed the center. At the last yard or so of approach, she skidded into a slide, knocking the demon's feet from under it. She was greeted with an enraged roar, but continued past. Reaching the middle archer, she jammed her dagger straight through his leather boot with her left hand, anchoring past the sole until it clanked against stone. It halted her slide, slinging her along a circular arc into the man's back. Her left foot smashed against the back of his shin as she struggled to pull the dagger loose, bringing him down on one knee. Her right knee found the center of his lower back as the blade flung free, a thin trail of blood spraying in its wake. She used her weight and momentum to bring him to the ground. Her tongue smacked against the roof of her mouth, repeating the previous hollowed clicking twice. As her blade slashed forcefully into the downed archer's left shoulder, Revas abandoned his hounding of the other to rush to her side. With precious little resistance, his teeth sank into the junction where neck met shoulder; a downed target was an easy target for the stout wolf. Samara pressed both knees onto the archer's back, regained her balance, and slowly pressed her dagger into the base of his spine. 

When she withdrew, she was met with an incoming lash of tainted lyrium from the now righted abomination, and the archer Revas had forsaken was drawing his bow. Dropping into a tight roll, she dodged left: making for the archer who was still aiming at Revas. Her tongue roughly clanking against her front teeth, she _tck'ed_ thrice at the wolf, mid-roll. Or she tried to: the pressure on her diaphragm and neck made it very difficult. The man's legs, she'd seen, were bloodied and raw, leaving him limping. He favored his right: the less injured side.

She wished she could have seen Revas in action, one on one against the hapless templar. He was a proper wolf in tactics, a fighting style she greatly admired: he would dodge and feint, charge and subside, but always he would watch. Study. Suss out the weakness. Then he'd rush: snap, slash, maim-- tear the flank, rip the legs --followed by a tactical withdrawal before a blow could be landed on him. Charge again, before his prey got its bearings. Cripple it, tire it, bring it down, all while conserving his own energy. Then he went for the throat, if he hadn't bared the belly first. It was a beautiful sight to behold; such a well-honed weapon with singular purpose-- oh, the majestic killer he could become, when needed! But only when needed. _Beautiful_ , indeed. 

She ducked out of the roll low at the archer's feet; her left hand planted firmly on the ground as she swung her legs in an effort to buckle him. But his stance was firm, fluid: he did not give, only stumbled. She could work with that. Her dagger was back in her main hand, now, as she recovered, and she slashed it across the man's left Achilles' tendon. The angle was awkward-- wrong --and she couldn't sink it deep enough, but still, the blow landed. And this time, he fell. Revas, from behind the man's right, fell upon him in a fury of flashing teeth. She assumed by the screams that he'd made contact. This one, she left to him. The man had already been greatly weakened. The abomination was a more pressing threat.

Cole had finished off the last archer and was working on one of the armored templars, who was deflecting both bolt and magic with relative ease. The blades, though, were proving more trying for him. At this rate, he wouldn't last. Narrowly, Samara avoided another bolt of lyrium leveled her way by the hulking beast; jumping aside in the nick of time. "Solas!" she called-- remembering in a flash that she wasn't alone, this time --and was rewarded by the shimmering zest of the barrier that sprung around her form. It was invigorating. With the magic shielding her, she charged headlong at the monstrosity, driving her shoulder into its torso. It barely budged-- perhaps _that_ was an ill-advised venture. She, at least, was faster. As it brought its arms together in a crushing blow, she dropped to the floor. The crack of its meeting claws above her head was nearly deafening. Rolling to the side, she narrowly avoided those same claws as they smashed into the ground beside her. 

The templar Cole was fighting had fallen. Cassandra and Varric were working on the next, while Solas had helpfully summoned a bolt of ice to slam into the abomination, temporarily freezing it in place. Cloaked by a sudden flash of smoke, Cole was at her side. In a whirl of motion he reached down, grabbed her hand, and spun her to her feet. She went with the motion to slash at the creature's back, while Cole stabbed both daggers just above its hip. The demon roared as it railed against its bonds. The ice broke in chunks from its massive body. One claw-- still dripping water and falling ice --swiped angrily for Cole, but he was already gone, was slashing at its back. It charged for her, but she ducked, sliding between its legs, lashing out at its thigh as she did so. It yowled in pain and rage. Cole spun at its side, daggers flying into its twisted flesh like mechanized saw blades. Then, he retreated, returned instead to test the opposite flank. Very like a wolf, she mused.

Side by side, they danced around the creature, and she could swear its movements had grown slower-- weaker, perhaps. It almost felt a game, and she, certainly, felt inappropriately giddy. _Oh, what_ fun _we could have_... 

Another stream of lyrium issued from the creature's palm. Samara whirled to the side in avoidance, until her shoulder blades brushed up against something solid; Cole's shoulder, she knew. He spun, too; his shoulder nudging into her back, furthering her speed so that she was propelled toward the horror with readied blade. She took another chunk from the creature's side, but it hardly seemed enough. At this rate, they'd be there all day.

Retreating, she gave a stilted nod in the direction of the towering creature's head. She locked eyes with Cole, who nodded in turn. Full speed, she ran at Cole, who had sheathed his blades in the blink of an eye. He ducked low, facing away from the beast, and she leapt into his linked palms. Just as she began to press off, he raised his hands and spun towards the horror, launching her into the air with the majority of her momentum preserved. Really, it was impressive timing. Reading minds could do that, she imagined. Quite a handy skill. 

She latched onto the monster's back, realizing belatedly just how _difficult_ the sharpened masses of red lyrium were to avoid. They practically hummed with dark energy, like a living, breathing creature. It was unnerving. Her dagger slipped easily into the side of that massive neck, increasing her balance, deepening her hold, but still the monster did not fall. She repeated the motion, again and again. Even as it resisted, the flesh felt pleasantly malleable and weak. It parted beneath her blows, leaving ragged sinew and partially flayed skin amidst a wash of darkened blood. As the creature finally began to slump to the ground, she pressed her weight forward, angling towards its head: she did _not_ want to be crushed beneath the creature's considerable mass. 

As it fell against the ground with no small amount of noise, Samara rolled from its back and stood, righting her stance. She was ready for the next: but no enemies remained. The last knight had fallen against the collective onslaught, and Revas had dispatched the final archer. Cleaning her blade against her breeches, she offered a wide smile to Cole. 

A few of the remaining templars cheered amicably, to which Cassandra frowned in the near distance. "It's not over yet," she reminded. 

"Envy," Cole supplied in a whisper, and Samara felt an involuntary shudder ripple through her. Images of the nightmares they had just endured flashed through her mind, even as the smoke began to filter through the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one time I used the word shimmied? All I could think was: shimmy, shimmy, cocoa puff! *Kerdies*
> 
> Also, I'm never writing another fight sequence again. Spin here, spin there, OMG find a suitable synonym already! When Samara decided to charge into the fight, I groaned.
> 
> Anyway. Oh, wait, I'm writing a fight sequence next chapter. *Dies* I think I'll just be lazy... Blah.


	23. Child of the Light -- pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heading back to Haven. Samara is rather afraid of Cassandra, aheh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 117 comments, you guys! Whew! Granted, at least half of them are mine, but still! I *never* expected this kind of reception and, frankly, I'm floored. Thank you so much for your continued support.
> 
> Here, have a quick update. XD

_RAOUL_

_Once again she returns . . ._

_. . . to the arms of her angel . . ._

_angel or demon . . . still he calls her . . ._

_luring her back, from the grave . . ._

_angel or dark seducer . . .?_

_Who are you, strange angel . . .?_

 

_PHANTOM_

_Angel of Music!_

_You denied me, turning from true beauty . . ._

_Angel of Music! Do not shun me . . ._

_Come to your strange Angel . . ._

 

_CHRISTINE_

_Angel of Music!_

_I denied you, turning from true beauty . . ._

_Angel of Music!_

_My protector . . . Come to me, strange Angel!_

_\-- Graveyard Song, Phantom of the Opera_

The return trip to Haven sped by far more quickly than the initial voyage. She resented Varric's insistence on a night's rest ere the last leg of travel-- time was, after all, a rare commodity in high demand --but she likewise appreciated the importance of heightened morale. To that end, sleep accomplished wonders. 

Varric tended to the fire while Cassandra kept watch, and Solas... Solas stared pensively into the distance, towards the slowly dying light that broke upon the mountaintops. It seemed he did little else these days. 

Cole lurked in the nearby shadows. He had followed them all this way, and still she had not broached the subject of his introduction to her companions. At first, she'd thought it nearly superfluous. Then Varric's amused commentary on the efficacy of talking to oneself in the midst of battle had informed her of its necessity. He remembered _that_ , but naught else? Or was Cole invisible to them-- did they perceive that their enemies merely fell at their feet of their own accord? Maker, she hoped it wasn't that. She could practically hear the myriad tales spun of the Inquisition's Herald dancing and leaping on thin air while the hosts of evil prostrated themselves before her. That would be... embarrassing.

But she had far more pressing matters to attend. Why was she still dawdling? It was foolish, really. The longer she put this off, the worse it'd be. But she was afraid. Cassandra was still restless-- edgy --and Envy's words doubtlessly did little to allay the Seeker's fears. Samara prayed that her own were more efficacious. 

_ "Dark and desperate, death to make yourself alive. I used to be like you. I'm not anymore. You shouldn't be either."  _

When Cole had first spoken those words to Envy, it took Samara a horrible beat to understand that he hadn't meant them for _her_. Perhaps longer. She had frozen, breath bated, eyes wide, mind reeling; terrified she'd done something wrong, cruel, _evil_. That she'd disappointed him, betrayed herself, failed her people. After she'd properly grasped her misinterpretation, relief had flooded through her system, simple and true. But then Envy spoke, and his words still shook within her, long after he was slain. 

" _Not one to talk,_ thing, _what with the company you keep! Lost little monsters, flailing in the dark. Wolves circling wolves, gnashing their blood-drenched teeth. And you dare tell me I'm the predator? Ha!" He looked to her with that nauseatingly eyeless stare, blind yet somehow seeing so_ much _\-- "We are not nearly so different as you play at, O blessed Herald of Andraste! Pah! So righteous, so pure. So... murderous."_

_ "So this is the part of the diatribe in which you tell me I'm just like you, is it?" she laughed shakily, nerves grinding and snapping even as she tried to be strong, good, faithful.  _

_"I suppose that's where we've come, yes. It just so happens that, in this case, it's_ entirely _correct. Why lie when the truth is so delicious, hmm? We're not just the same, little Herald. We are practically identical."_

_She looked to Cole and, blessedly, found her strength through him: through his strength. His goodness. His faith. Her voice's shaking had lessened. "Be that as it may, demon-- and I have no wish to argue that matter with you --there is one difference between us, and it has greater worth than all the similarities combined."_

_"And what is that, sweet child of the light?"_

_"The side for which we fight. Where we stand is what defines us; makes us, proves us. But for monsters like you, I'm afraid, all that's left to define you is where you fall. It will be here. Today, beneath the sabatons of the Inquisition's outstretched heel you will find your answer writ in blood. Defeat is your reward, Envy. Come, claim it!"_

_"And soon, you will find yours," the demon laughed, flexing its many clawed arms, "Remember, Herald: justice is blind."_

And then the words were done, the battle waged, and fall he did. A righteous victory. The templars spared; allied with the Inquisition, their veterans sent ahead to aid in sealing the Breach. The day was won. But Samara did not feel victorious. She felt... wounded. And then there was Cole. They hadn't spoken since departing Therinfal. He kept to the shadows, and she, to the light. His silence frightened her. She couldn't help but think she'd done something wrong, after all. Was it the lack of introduction? Or was it something worse? 

Well, one problem at a time. She could speak to Varric, perhaps. The Seeker did not seem a viable option. She considered approaching him now-- speaking to him somewhere off in the woods --but the pull to speak to Cole was greater. After all, this involved him. It would be untoward to speak of him to the others without his explicit consent. Yes, she would speak to him first.

But Solas had taken an interest in her, it seemed. He was approaching at a leisurely pace and, for one panicked moment, Samara considered running. She could sprint towards Cole, follow him into the shadows. Forego her ever-pressing obligations. _That would be ridiculous,_ she thought. _Childish_. She stayed still, instead. Too still, maybe; she felt every bit a spooked deer.

"My Lady Herald," he stated, inflection painstaking yet strangely lacking in intonation, "you have been avoiding me, I think."

Samara cleared her throat, turned her head away. Blinked repeatedly. "Have I?" she coughed, feeling strangely put on the spot and entirely out of sorts, "I wasn't aware that I had. I did promise to speak to you again and, I'll grant, I have yet to keep my word. But, I assure you, I fully intended to do so upon our return to Haven. And it's still Samara, mind. Nothing has changed between us."

"That is good to hear, Samara. Or I believe it should be. In any case: why save for tomorrow what can be accomplished today?"

She glanced only once to the forest edge where Cole paced, but when she looked back she saw Solas tracking the motion. She saw him _see_ her see, which was somehow significantly worse. She didn't know who she cursed more: herself for being careless, or Solas for being painfully perceptive of things he had no business perceiving. She had no way of knowing if he'd seen Cole or not, but he seemed to find something amiss just the same. He usually did-- or so she was beginning to suspect. 

"Ah, I see. You still do not trust us." She could hear the restrained sigh in his voice. Perhaps he just thought she wanted to run? That wasn't far from the truth, after all. 

"I wouldn't go that far," she breathed, hating these admissions, "when I trust it is fully. When I make up my mind it is set. I worry to give myself to others so swiftly... I find a dash of hesitance is oft warranted. Prudent. It will take time, Solas. Nothing more."

"Very well, Samara. Time I have in abundance, and this I freely give. Take all that you need. Only... don't stray too far, hmm? The world can be much less forgiving."

_That_ reeked of double-meaning, she thought, but she was hard-pressed to name just what it was. Maybe she didn't want to name it. Names, after all, are power. With a harsh shake of the head, she relented. "What do you mean by that, exactly? " 

He offered a soft chuckle, inclining his head vaguely in Cole's direction. "The woods, Samara. I find that a walk can serve well to clear one's mind." 

"Of course," she nodded, the motion strained, "Thank you, Solas." 

He smiled, and it was _almost_ warm. "By your leave, my Lady." 

She smiled back, hoping to keep the suspicion from narrowing her eyes. "We will speak soon."

"Oh, I look forward to it."

Looking back to Cole, she paused. Bit at her cheek. Waited. She'd dearly hoped Solas would leave first. He didn't, and things were fast becoming awkward. _You asked my leave and you have it, you bold, bald elf! Fenedhis!_ Cursing profusely, she offered a half-hearted shrug. "I suppose I'll take that walk now," she near whispered, turning to smile at the stubborn elf. 

"As you wish, Samara," he said, inclining his head in a smooth but understated nod. Still, he did not move. 

She wanted to scream. _Cole_ , her thoughts yelled instead, insistent but not unkind, _come with me, please._ She headed to the forest at right, not looking to see if he followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lazy flashbacks are lazy. But also less spammy!
> 
> Oh, right. I did quote game-Cole in here once. I try not to do that, but some of his quotes are just too good to pass up.xD


	24. Child of the Light -- pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road back, miscellaneous interactions with Cole.

"Where were you when the lights went out?" A call from behind, as Samara grappled through the underbrush. Cole had followed.

She paused, turned, feet sinking into the silt. "What?"

"You think it often, between sighs. Breath hollow in the night sky, white ribbons of warmth whispering away, trailing cold. Fleeting flickers, swallowed up. When the sky is dark; the stars silent, the moon fled, no light left to feed the shadows. Just you, dark for the dark. They grow hungry and you, colder. So alone, when the monsters come. You hear claws clacking on the windowsill, scrapping screams against tree bark: wherever you are, it follows. But you look, and nothing's there-- no one. No one is there.

"It makes you angry because it's... quiet. You and the trees, which is louder? Mouth shut, silence cries on the breeze. It's not their fault they weren't there."

"I... know." Breath caught, heart wavering. "But no one is ever there."

"I will be."

"I believe you," she said. And finally, she did.

She turned back to the deer trail she'd been following. A copse of Juneberry lay ahead, sprouting amidst the scattered grove of Hemlock and Alder. There were berries present-- a bit early for the bulk, but ripe enough for eating. Smiling, she started towards the trees.

"'What am I leaving behind?'" Cole interjected, voice crisp, "You wonder as you walk away. The path is long, the way winding: deep into darkness. You never know what part stays back, what remains inside. I am the same. I don't know who I'll be... or what I'll become.

"But this time, it's the hurt that's leaving-- you that sticks together, whole. Or it will, if you let it. Will you let it?"

"I will try." She sidled close to the Hemlock, surveying it. It was healthy; tall and thick. Few low branches remained. Her hands extended fully could only wrap around one side of the nearest branch. She pulled and lifted on the side opposite; testing her weight against it. It held. Slowly, she lifted herself nearly flush against it, before tucking her legs and rolling them up-- over. She did not want undue motion adding to the branch's strain. Her legs stretched, abdomen contracting and contorting, until her feet met bark and, simultaneously, her hands released their hold. Dropping to one knee, she spread her arms to either side, displacing her weight and aiding her balance as fingers curled nimbly against splintered wood. When the wobbling ceased, those fingers moved to work at the lacings of a rawhide pouch that dangled from her belt. "Come up here, Cole," she called, mirth in her voice. "Not the same branch!" she amended, mind flooding with images of tangled limbs and bruised flesh.

He appeared above her, perched on a nearby branch, expression pensive. "The ground is strong, wide, big-- bigger than us. You hear its voice and remember old pains, shallow but engrained: little scars swirling above the large. But it's not singing of pain. It doesn't want us to hurt."

"Maybe not," she chuckled, "but it has hurt me all the same."

"Hands the size of apples, stained red as ripened raspberries. Too little to hold, too new to endure. Bruises outside and in. The branches didn't want to keep you. No one was there to catch you. You were ashamed, you were afraid. You climbed anyway, more and more to set it right. The earth was so dark, so large, seeming soft but sharp like rocks. You didn't want to be swallowed up, so you learned to hold tighter, climb higher." He swallowed, nodded, looked into her eyes. "Don't worry, rabbit. I won't let you fall."

Hands fumbled, paused. Fell to her side. "People talk much of the nightingale's prowess," she whispered, hoarse through the lump in her throat.

He cocked his head. "They do?"

"Yes. Well, I think so. They spin tales of the sweetness of its song, of the sorrows and the joys. Never cage a nightingale, they say, or it will not sing again. It withers and dies, away from its woods. But... there is another song. One I find far sweeter. _Catharus_ _guttatus_ , the Hermit Thrush. I have never seen one caged. I hope I never do."

"That's me?" he puzzled, eyes averted, hands picking at the frayed tips of his gloves.

"The brightest song in the woods. Unmatched, unseen, unknown... or so I hope. I fear what becomes of the bird once its song is known by men..." Her voice trailed off, soft and unsure. She swallowed against the lump, cleared her throat. Stood slowly, forced a smile. "Help me with these berries, hmm? When we return to Haven, we'll set some venison to dry. Pound the berries, and the meat, into pemmican. It will be a boon for our travels."

They worked in silence for a time, hands filled with the little blue berries. Amongst the numerous pickings, Samara found a particularly plump berry, sure to be sweet on the tongue. Too good to be wasted in a mash. "Catch!" she shouted through a grin, tossing it up at Cole.

He caught it quickly, but at the expense of the rest. His expression was partway between horror and confusion as the berries toppled from his hands to the ground.

 _Sorry,_ she mouthed, even as her blue-stained hand rose to shield her laughter.

He surveyed her offering with a puzzled frown. "I _had_ berries," he nearly pouted.

"But this one's better!" she supplied in a rush, her laughter ebbing as quickly as it began, "Try it! Don't eat the pit, though; it's poison."

"I don't eat," he mumbled. His eyes brightened. "Maybe the Nightingale will like them?"

"Ha, yes. I suppose she has an affinity for poisons." She shoved the remaining berries into here bag. "So you've never eaten?"

"I did, once. Thoughts clambering in my belly like knots, writhing and burning. The words said I must, so I did. They don't say it anymore."

"Necessity isn't the only reason one eats. There is enjoyment to be had, even in the smallest things, the unlikeliest places. Try it. It's good, I promise."

He eyed the small fruit with curious eyes, turning it between his fingers. After a cautious sniff, he slowly, deliberately placed it in his mouth. " _Whispers, old and frail. The sweetness sings their fevered song. One, two, three. Marissa and me. Four, five, six, buried in the bricks. Seven, eight, nine, the soldiers fall in line. Berries and jam and twigs in her hair, Marissa the kind, Marissa the fair. Bodies and blood and screams in the air, the ashes are falling past Marissa's limp stare._ Marissa always loved to pick the biggest berries. She'd climb higher than anyone. The tree remembers." A pause, his eyes lifted skyward. The gentle shake of his head. "Yes. It's good."

"Who was Marissa?" Samara asked softly, her eyes on Cole.

"Farmer's daughter and fairest in the land. Long ago, when the trees were young. I don't know. I don't know her."

 

The walk back to the camp was long, their pace slow and unhurried. A calming breeze stuttered through Samara's hair, ruffling the tips. She turned into it blissfully, inhaling the scents of the forest, intent on storing the memory away for when she would be once more stuck in the city. She glanced at Cole, a smile unbidden tugging at her face.

"Lest I forget, always take care on deer trails, Cole. Where there's deer..."

"There's things that eat deer."

"Yes, exactly."

He tilted his head to the side. "Is that why you left Revas behind?"

"That is... a factor." She had walked plenty such trails in the Planasene with Revas by her side. Then, of course, it had been necessary. He was no safer alone; awaiting her return.

"You want to protect them," he stated matter-of-factly, "the others."

"I suppose I do."

"But you don't trust them?"

"I trust them more than most." She paused, fidgeting with her hand wraps. "Should I?"

"They want to help. Save the shattered, fix the hurt. They want to make it better, just like you."

"Just like me," she parroted. "I will trust them, if you do." She sighed, feeling the uncertainty and fear still warring within her. "Come with me to the camp, _da'len._ I believe some introductions are in order."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Life got very difficult for a good while there. I'm sorry. It still isn't entirely better, but I was eagerly ready for some Colemance and got to reading the recent postings, and was saddened by just how few of them there were. So I had to at least try. I make no promises, but this is at least on my mind again.


	25. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some much needed relationship development.

****

Samara paused mid-stride halfway back to the camp. Cole had been keeping pace beside her, and the abruptness with which she stopped caused him to jostle against her lightly, his shoulder brushing hers. She felt an electric shudder wrack through her body at the touch, though it was not nearly cold enough for the chill.

"Cole," she murmured, extending her hand. She hesitated briefly, then wrapped his hand in hers, her pinky raising to smooth soft circles against his roughened skin. "Come," she said, more loudly this time. She tugged him towards a fallen tree, its bark rotting and patchy. She sat, and he joined her with a _plop._ Bark papered off and circled to the ground with the motion. "Cole," she repeated, uncertainty coloring her tone, "is this truly your wish? Once it is done, it cannot be revoked."

He nodded quickly. "Yes. I want to help."

"Very well. But know this: I cannot control how they will respond. Cannot know. They may not see you as I do. May not treat you as you deserve."

"You're afraid," he said plainly, his gaze piercing through her, " _whispers, loud and cruel, shattering the night. Doesn't belong, doesn't fit, not right. Sibilant secrets, sanguine and wretched, coiling like serpents in a cave. Make it right, force her back to us, end him, end him._ Maker _, what if he leaves?_ It won't be the same. Don't worry." He paused, leaned closer, his hair falling a mere fraction from her nose. "I won't leave you, rabbit. No matter what they say. Don't worry."

"Why?" she asked, before she could think better of it.

His answering giggle was like birdsong, melodic and pure. He leaned back, smiled widely. "You help the hurt, too. Save the small. You're so _bright,_ rabbit. I-- sometimes I can't see anything else. I see only you." His expression turned pensive, then, and she wondered if that wasn't sadness she caught briefly, swirling behind his eyes.

Her smile was small; nervous, uncertain. Her free hand moved towards where the other still clasped his, wound up to his wrist, wrapped gently around. Fingers roamed, pressing and circling, searching. "And is that... a bad thing?"

"No!" he nearly shouted, voice firm. Then softer, wavering, "Yes. I don't--" He sighed, gazed gently at their entwined hands. Blinked quickly. He carried on, a rush of words and breath, "I have to see the hurt to help it. _Need_ to help it. If I don't help, I become a monster. Bad again. Hurt the helpless, crush the small-- I..."

"Oh, _da'vhenan, ma'vhenan..._ " She was surprised: the words slipped unbidden from her lips. "No. You will not fall," she said through a smile, her hand letting go of his wrist, raising to cup his face. Her thumb brushed side to side against his cheek, smoothed circles against his flesh. "You are _good,_ precious one. So good. You will not succumb to darkness. I know this. Even so, I will be here. And I will not allow it. You have my word. I will do everything in my power to help you stay true."

His eyes met hers, pleading, searching, seeking. He nodded quickly. Swallowed, turned away. "I saw you, rabbit. From across the wide sea waves, blinding in the mist. I saw light like fire, even then. I saw you, and I came. Far from purpose, far from knowing and needing but needing still. _Torn, pulled, taut, fractured and free. A frigid fire forms in the bones, calls, like to like. The old song swirls low and sick in the burning, but twisted, true, singing new._ It scares me. What does it mean?"

"I don't know, _da'len,_ but we will learn this together, yes?"

"Together," he repeats, squeezing her hand tightly.

The word twists sweet knots in her belly, bleeds joy into her veins. Her ears dance wildly with its music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, anyone still around? It's so sad how empty it is here.


	26. Nibbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole meets the group, and brings a surprise to camp.

Samara's mind felt like a mess of buzzing insects; a disturbed hive emptied, ready to defend. She fought the urge to stagger, grip her head, call out. Why had she lied? Already it had proven a complication. But would the truth be any better? Any safer?

"I don't understand," Cassandra continued, enunciating each word with strange precision, "why was your... _friend_ in the area, as you say? This place is empty."

"I followed to help," Cole interjected, and Maker, _must_ he? There was something in the proud set of his shoulders, however; the tilt of his head-- floppy hat and all --the pure, sweet smile upon the pale shroud of his face that made the thought flee her. She could begrudge him nothing, least of all his honesty. It was an admirable trait, after all, if not entirely wise.

"You _followed_ us?" Cassandra asked, incredulous. "How?"

"I walked," Cole said simply.

"Cole is very talented at what he does," Samara added.

"And what's that?" Varric asked, edging closer to their small group. Solas remained on the outskirts, watching, she noted with some concern.

"He is like me," she said. She didn't elaborate.

"Sneak sneak, stabbity stab?" Varric clarified.

"Precisely."

"Very well," Cassandra muttered, giving a slight nod. "Nevertheless, we must take care. There is no knowing what else may be following. If we did not see him, what else are we overlooking?"

"We are safe," Cole said. _For now,_ Samara thought. "Don't worry, rabbit," he added, looking right at her.

"Whoa whoa, watch the slurs kid!" Varric had his hands raised, palms out.

"Slurs?" Cole asked, apparently confused, "she likes it."

"That true, Snow?"

"From him, yes." _Don't get any ideas._

"In any case," Cassandra broke in, turning toward Cole, "do you truly wish to aid us?"

"Yes." He nodded empathically, his giant hat bobbing up and down.

"Very well. There ought to be an extra bedroll in one of the packs, though you will have to share a tent. Is that acceptable?"

"I don't--" he began. _Don't say that,_ Samara thought loudly. As loud as she could. She didn't know how, but she simply _knew_ he was about to say something... unusual. "But--" he tried to continue. _Don't. Say. It._ He frowned, his head falling. Finally, he nodded. "Yes."

Cassandra looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing.

"Welcome to the club, kid!" Varric shouted, laughing kindly. He slapped Cole on the back, causing him to step forward to keep from falling. "Any friend of Snow's a friend of mine."

"Friends?" Cole wondered aloud.

"You betcha. Nothing you can do to get out of it now."

"Thank you."

 

Early that evening, Solas found her grooming Revas outside her tent. She'd moved Cole's bedroll beside her own, having decided that was the safest course. The man had, however, recently disappeared. She suspected this was an occurrence to which she'd grow accustomed.

"Good evening, _lethallin,"_ he stated, inclining his head.

"Good evening."

"Do you think it wise, Samara?"

She blinked. "Tending to my friend?" she asked, gazing down at Revas.

"Withholding information from your trusted companions, _da'len,_ " he said sharply, huffing a rough, short sigh as though his intent should be plain to see. Perhaps it should, by now.

She sighed in turn, ruffling a hand through her hair. "Trust is a strong word, _lethallan,_ and a stronger concept. It should not be given lightly."

"Have we not proven our loyalty to you many times over?"

"And why are you so eager to win my trust if not to betray it?" she spat. She stood quickly to face him. Revas whined at the removal of her affections. She sighed again, her shoulders drooping. "Forgive me. That was unworthy of me."

She expected a reprimand, but none came. "It will be worse," he said instead, "when they learn the truth."

Just then, Cole reentered the camp, what looked to be a small, shriveled nug huddled to his chest.

"Excuse me," she told Solas, a hint of apology to her tone.

He nodded, acknowledging the dismissal. He turned to leave, but paused. "Take care, Samara. I do not wish you or your friend any hardships."

"Thank you, Solas."

At that, he left. Samara was not alone long, however. Cole strode over to her, a frown on his face.

"He has no one," he said, gazing down at what was, in fact, a little pink nug. "The wolves came, hungry gnashing teeth. White then red then blackness. He had a family. Then, nothing."

An orphan, then. Samara could relate. She smiled softly at the way the nug nibbled at Cole's finger.

"He's hungry," Cole said.

She nodded, thinking. "Nibbles."

"Nibbles?"

"Yes. Nibbles the nug. I think it fits him, no?"

Cole turned up his head, pensive. Finally he nodded. "Nibbles." The small nug squirmed in his grip, turning to nuzzle against his palm. "I think he likes it."

Samara smiled. "Come. Let's get him some food."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, people is still here! *Dances*
> 
> I'm having a hard time keeping it in the past tense, I've noticed. Sorry for any slip-ups. I think I probably should have written this in present, but oh well.


	27. The Moon Hangs on a Sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole and Samara share a tent.

It was unseasonably hot; Samara was beginning to sweat beneath her furs. As the night wore on, they were pushed first from her shoulders, then to her hips and, finally, they were left to pool on the floor below her feet. All the while, Cole fidgeted off to her right, oblivious to her plight. She could hear the thin wool of his blanket scritch-scratch with each movement. Maker, what-- was that _giggling?_ Her eyes sufficiently adjusted, she could just make out his silhouette through the blackness. At his shoulder, the roving shape of Nibbles took form.

"It tickles!" Cole shrieked, far too loudly for the late hour.

She sighed. "Cole," she began, not without amusement, "are you quite well?"

"Nnh," he grunted, before launching into another fit of giggles. "He thinks my ear is a mushroom!"

"I trust I won't wake to find you devoured."

"He won't eat me, rabbit. I make him warm again."

She smiled. _You make me warm again, too._

She could feel his eyes snap to hers. "I knew you." His voice had grown deeper; gravely. Nibbles was scooped up in his arms, settled on his chest.

"What do you mean, Cole?"

"When we met beneath the maple trees, sun swirling, sweeping, shining on your hair. Time gone, always and never, forever in the breeze. I feel like I've always known you."

Her smile grew. Hand reached out, pinky twining around his. "I'm glad you found me again."

"I'm glad too, rabbit."

The night was quiet. She could hear the rustling of leaves, the trill of nearby insects, the occasional hooting owl. The distant crackle of the fire-- still burning --was a calming undercurrent to the scene. It burned brightly enough to cast a long play of shadow and light across the tent's surface; thick fingers of color reaching gently through the dark. Idly she wondered who had tended the flames.

There was the rumpling of fabric again. Cole's head lolled to the side, facing her. "Solas," he mumbled. "His is a soft song."

"Hmm." She felt curiosity nudging at her mind. "And mine? What is my song?"

She could hear his smile in the dark. "Everything."

***

When she awoke, the sky was dark still. The air was heavy with a cool mist, the temperature having dropped sufficiently that Samara felt bereft of the warmth of her furs. She pulled them to her chin, turning her cheek to nuzzle against the softness. At her left, Revas snored. Gazing instead at the unmoving Cole, she noted with a smile that Nibbles seemed to have fallen asleep on his chest. _Maker, such beauty._

At that, Cole shifted minutely. "Hello," he said.

After the initial wave of surprise, a smile grew to crinkle her eyes. "Hello." She stretched out as much as the confined space would allow, twisting this way and that. "Did I wake you?"

She could hear the flop of his head. "I don't sleep."

"No?" She frowned. "Wait. Then what are you..."

"You wanted me here, rabbit. I'm here."

"You... you are a very silly person."

He chuckled, a light, airy sound. "I like when you call me that!"

"Silly?"

"A person."

"You are one, _ma'vhenan_. Do not forget it."

"Thank you."

"Hm?"

"You let me be me. Real. Thank you."

"You needn't thank me for that, Cole. There's nothing I'd rather you be."

***

Samara awoke next to a bubbling chorus of birdsong as the morning light first broke the treeline. She was pleased and amused to find that Nibbles had shifted position during the night; he was now perched precariously upon Revas' head, curled up in a little ball right between his pricked ears. The great wolf bore the burden begrudgingly, huffing his complaint and gazing at her sidelong with a long-suffering expression. She chuckled. She was incredibly thankful for his loyalty and restraint. He'd been trained to hunt such creatures, after all; not cuddle them. It had been a dangerous situation the previous night; at their first introduction, Revas had made to attack. She'd shouted to hold, and he had. The exercise was repeated twice more before he relented, plopping at her feet in annoyance. It seemed successful, however, for now the little nug bounced with each breath Revas took, and yet he did not awaken. Revas made no move to dislodge him, much less attack. Thank the Maker.

Her thoughts turned to Cole. She wondered how unpleasant it must be, passing the long night in silence, without even the reprieve of dreams.

He stirred beside her, brushing the hair from his eyes. "Good morning, rabbit."

"Morning," she mumbled, still groggy.

"You never wonder what I am?" He sounded uncertain.

"And why would I wonder?"

He paused, listening to something she could not hear. " _Lonely and lost, longing to be free as the keening birds in the pre-dawn thermals. The morning is still. The moon hangs on a sigh. Spinning stars like shrapnel pierce the breast, igniting hunger's humming hubris: more, more. Thoughts strangled spirals orbitting the sky, burning bright, 'round and 'round. Memory's snare tightens taut, chokes._ But you are not afraid. You know who I am. It's for yourself you wonder."

Words and breath caught in her throat, more painful than she was expecting. She swallowed them down, bit back the pain like bile. A blink, a nod. "Yes."

"I'm not afraid of you, rabbit."

Cut off words, huffing through a sad smile. "Maybe you should be."

"No, and neither should you."

"Why not?"

"You've done such good here. You'll do more. Can't you see it?"

She shook her head, shrugged. "Perhaps it is enough that you can."

He frowned and wrung his hands. "I don't understand. There's hurt upon hurt, but it's tangled, twisted. I can't find it. Can't see the way. It doesn't make sense."

"Not all hurt does, _da'len._ Worry not. I am well."

"You aren't, but you will be?"

"As you say, dear one."

She knew it was time to begin the day, but she hesitated. Hated to break the spell: Revas and Nibbles, Cole by her side. It was a lovely thing, this tender, newfound connection, this togetherness. She did not wish to be alone again.

"You won't be. I am here."

She found his hand beneath the blanket, tugged, squeezed. "Thank you, Cole." Paused, sighed. "Shall we face the day?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this happened! Maybe someday I'll get to some actual plot. What can I say? These two love to talk.


	28. Clouds on the Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara learns that Cole is a spirit. Solas continues being a broody mother-hen.

Back at Haven, life continued as normal. The cocks crowed, the birds sang, the townsfolk chattered. It was as if nothing had changed and, Samara supposed, perhaps that was true enough. Except for the contingents of soldiers training in the clearing, the Breach had little affect on city dwellers, safe as they were in their warm lodgings; protected by the sacrifices of others. Which was entirely the point, wasn't it? To suffer so they need not. To face horrors so their minds may be at peace. It was a worthy cause.

Nevertheless, Samara's world felt upended. She could scarce have imagined the changes wrought of her Keeper's sole command. How swiftly the course of a life could alter! Hers, certainly, would never be the same, and all the result of a single choice. She did not know whether to curse the day or celebrate it. So much had changed-- both good and bad --and, with a degree of reluctance, she acknowledged much more was yet to come. She prayed only that she had the strength to weather the coming storms.

In the space before her dilapidated gray shack, Nibbles and Revas played. Or, rather, Nibbles played. Revas tolerated. The little nug was fascinated by the swish of Revas' tail and, true to his namesake, seemed intent on exploring it with his mouth. Revas paced slowly, head down, ears back. He tried in vain to switch his tail away from Nibbles' grasp, but the nug would not give up. From her place against the moulding wood, Samara looked on with endeared amusement. It was a good day. Strangely warm, considering the snow on the ground, but good all the same.

And then Solas approached. Samara could sense black clouds on the horizon.

"Good day, Samara," he said, inclining his head in greeting. "I am pleased to see your charges are getting on well."

"Oh, famously," she said, chuckling. "And well met, Solas."

"If you have a moment, there is a matter we need discuss."

She frowned. "I see. Go on; we have privacy at present."

"It is about Cole."

"I had expected nothing less. What troubles you, _lethallin?_ "

"I spoke with him this morning. I have concerns," he paused, meeting her eyes, "about your degree of... involvement."

"Of course," she said dryly. "And may I inquire as to the cause of these concerns?"

"Firstly, may I ask, what do you know of his past?"

Her frown grew to a scowl. In the background, Revas huffed a warning snort as Nibbles clamped down on his tail. "Behave," she grunted offhandedly. Revas pouted and whined. "There are many in the Inquisition's services," she said with a wave of the hand, "I do not presume to pry into their pasts. My interest is only in our future."

"And I am certain they appreciate your discretion. Unfortunately, I must press the issue. The past can have grave consequences on our future."

"And how does this pertain to my involvement, as you say?"

"Cole is a _spirit, da'len,_ and one of no insignificant importance at that. I am concerned, as I said, with your involvement only insofar as it may corrupt his purpose."

_A spirit? How?_ Her gaze dropped to the ground. She did not wish for Solas to be privy to her hurt and confusion. Perhaps hurt was a strong word, but still, why had Cole not told her? Of course, she had not asked. She'd made it a point to not. She'd said his origins did not matter, and that was true. Still, this was a... _complication._ There was much to think on. She hesitated. "Possession?" she asked, eyes still downcast.

"No. His body is his own. A manifestation of his will. Truly, it is remarkable."

Remarkable, indeed. In all her time spent with her nose buried in smuggled Circle books, she had read of no such thing. It hardly seemed possible, and yet, here he was. Living proof. "How might I corrupt his purpose, and what might be the consequence?" she asked finally. She feared the answer.

"If his purpose goes long unfulfilled, he is at risk of becoming a demon. That would be a great loss. Spirits of his nature are rare; the world can ill afford to lose another."

"His purpose?" To this, she suspected she knew the answer. _To help._

"That would depend upon what manner of spirit he is. I believe he is Compassion, however. He would seek to lessen the pain of others."

She nodded. "And my involvement?" she pressed.

"He is... interested in you, _lethallan._ To a point that worries me. For this interest to form so fully, and in so short a time... it borders on fixation, I'm afraid."

"Why? I mean... why me?"

"I do not know. Still, it is not healthy. I would urge you to consider his fate, ere you continue on in this way."

"I cannot--" she paused, unsure. "I will not," she continued instead, "deign to impose my will on him. He is not in the Beyond any longer. It... free will is granted all children of the Maker, here. Man or spirit, it is his choice, not my own."

"I will not disagree on that point. However, I would seek to dissuade you from encouraging him in this matter. The results could prove disastrous for you both."

"Your opinion is noted," she said. Then, to lessen the harshness, "and appreciated. I thank you."

"Of course, _lethallan._ I mean only to protect him." A pause, eye contact. "And you."

She nodded. "Solas..." She fixed her eyes on him, intent. "I would ask that you tell no others of this."

"As you say, Samara. But I _would_ urge you to reconsider. You cannot hide this long."

"It is dangerous. They may view him as a curiosity; a tool to be plied towards the Inquisition's ends. And I fear that is in the best case. I would not see him used in this way."

"Do you speak from experience, Samara?"

An immediate reply: "Yes." Her brows knitted in confusion; why had she said that? "Or not. I-- I'm afraid I can't recall."

"I see. It would serve you well to bear in mind that not all are so cruel," he said, "or so crude. There are those who merely care, Samara. There are those who wish to see you succeed."

"And are you one of them?"

"I should hope so. Good day, Samara."

"Good day, Solas."

Once he was beyond her ken, Samara sunk to the ground, deflated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, why is Solas so annoying in this fic? He keeps butting in!


	29. Let it Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smuuuuut. Kinda.

_His left hand fisted in her hair, tugged. Pulled down to grasp at the base of her spine. His right was roaming farther, massaging roughly at the muscles near her breast._ Serratus lateralis _, her mind supplied. She held her breath as he continued._ Obliquus externus _came next, the muscles contracting beneath his touch._ Abdominis _, she added in hindsight._ Rectus abdominis _immediately after._ Lineas alba _. Back to the obliques. She moaned softly, but still she dare not breathe._ Crista iliaca _. He squeezed, held tight. The thoughts were stuttering. Her breath escaped in a gasp, her own hands moving to scratch down his shoulder blades, grip at the muscles there, fingers and nails curved inward._ Musculus trapezius _, she chided inwardly-- loudly, struggling to maintain a semblance of composure --_ latissimus dorsi _. He was moving again, breath hot on her neck making her hairs stand on end:_ piloerection _, eh,_ pilomotor reflex _. Well, it would, if she had hair there to--_ mons veneris _. In an instant, the thoughts silenced, replaced by a whirring in her ears. His hand trailed lower, and the whirring grew into a vacuum. It was as though all air had fled her quivering lungs and nestled there, swirling like a storm. A swarm. Her head lolled to the side, eyes open, breath hitched. She wondered if both lungs hadn't somehow become simultaneously snagged on a rib. The pleurae were very nearly burni-- Maker! The damned_ pleurae _weren't the only thing burning in her. Her entire body felt aflame-- febrile, but alive like never before --each muscle tightening into a spasm, warring for supremacy. She bit her lip. The composure was slipping._ And why shouldn't it _? her mind grinned, all teeth._ If ever there was a time _..._

_Her leg raised upwards, thigh pressed tight against his hip, foot digging into his lower back. One hand cupped the back of his head, the other found purchase upon the forest floor; pushed hard against it. He was toppled by the force, his hat falling to the ground behind them with a soft_ plop _. A chuckle escaped his lungs as she smoothly swung to sit astride him, thighs straddling his hips. His fingers were pressed against her hips, in turn, tugging her downward, forcing friction._

_Her free hand roved hungrily down his chest as she seized his ear with her teeth. "You are mine,_ vhenan'ara _. Do not forget it," she growled, loosing her hold._

_He nodded quickly and smiled. It was filled with such gentleness, such tender affection it warmed her soul. "I won't. Never."_

_Her tone softened, grew husky. "_ Ma'vhenan _,_ vhenan'ara _,_ sa'lath _._ Ma'arlath _,_ ar lath ma _, more than the earth and all its treasures, more than the sky and its stars, more than the forest herself. I would see them burn by my own bloodied hands, ere I turn from you. The world has much to fear, myself included. But not you, beloved. Never you," she crooned, hand tugging at his shirt, raising it slowly over his chest, "not while I am by your side. And I would level the mountains to remain so."_

_She did not give him time to reply-- they did not have the luxury. Her lips captured his own with a warm subtlety that masked her intent. Though she feared it yet, the fire was kindled within her. The darkness churned, reveled. The all-encompassing passion that beat within her heart-- so often channeled into rage --flowed full force, having now an outlet. Such was a dangerous affair. Truly, the world could burn, by her own hand, and she wouldn't have a care. At this moment, and for all others, there was no matter of consequence greater than the man before her._ Beneath her _, chuckled her eager mind._ Let it burn _._

_Breathless, she pulled back, tongue darting to further wet her lips. He shifted to accommodate her, blonde hair falling to shadow lidded eyes; piercing Fade-blue eyes that traced the movement of her tongue, studying her face. Watching her. She did not hesitate to rid him of his worn leather shirt, riddled through and through with holes and stains. Still, she took her time with the process-- much to her surprise --delighting in the way the fabric peeled back from his flesh, the tiny shivers in him evinced by the motion.  The way his chest tightened as her nails grazed against his skin. It was beautiful._ Perfect _. She eased it over his head, eyed the way it further rumpled his mussed hair. Tossed the unwanted thing to the floor. Her hands continued to roam, down the smooth planes of his chest, sliding to caress his pectorals. Down the sharp, angled muscles of his abdomen and back again, roughly kneading his flesh. She could taste the sweat and arousal permeating the air, and she needed more. Sliding down his hips, she stooped, licked the skin from his chest to his neck and nestled there, delighting in the salt that clung to her tongue. She sunk her teeth into his neck, moaning roughly at the sensual sensation of it, the feel of his quickening pulse beneath her lips. Kissed, tugged, nipped, bit. Harder. Her hips jutted forward, rutting and rocking against his pelvis. He writhed beneath her, which served only to spur her on. His moans rose to join her own. She pulled back to admire him; the beads of sweat that graced his body, the hair that clung to his face, the way his skin glistened in the firelight--_ firelight _? That wasn't... where had_ that _come from? There was no fire here._

_She glanced at the surrounding forest, and found it alit with raging flame. Something was wrong. Smoke filled her nostrils, stinging as it went. Her eyes watered, and yet..._

_"We have to go," he whispered, hoarse, "this isn't right."_

_"No!" she shouted, desperate. Then firmer, dangerous, "_ No _."_

_"If we don't stop, we'll_ burn _."_

_He tried to buck her off-- roll away --but she ground her hips against him, dug fingers like claws into the soil._

_"Rabbit, you're scaring me," he pleaded._

_She met his eyes. Smirked. "_ Let it burn. _"_

Samara awoke with a start, sweat dripping in great globules from her furrowed brow. Her undershirt was soaked through. A telling dampness nestled between her thighs. She gasped, winced, froze. Why would she experience such an untoward dream? Certainly, she liked the man. Felt affection and sympathy for him-- adored his company. Perhaps even entertained fleeting thoughts of more, but not like this. It was far too early for such notions. And with the added knowledge that Cole was a spirit, vulnerable to corrupting influence... well, _that_ was a complicating factor, indeed. And there were far more pressing matters to which she need attend. She could ill afford such an unfounded distraction, pleasant though it may be. Though she could scarce hope to control the content of her dreams, she nonetheless felt sullied by the nature of this one. As though she had taken advantage, somehow. That fire was a blessing. It had saved her from further guilt.

"What does it mean? Fire, fire. Always fire. Twisting, twirling, testing. Scorching a path through your mind, only ashes in its wake."

She jumped straight up, the bed creaking pitifully beneath her weight. Revas raised his head, glanced about, and lay back down. "Maker, Cole! How long have you been there...?"

He cocked his head. "There? Here? I heard you, rabbit. You were loud. _Fire blossoms beneath breasts, beats within hearts, flesh on flesh and white-hot sparks trailing, lower and hotter and--_ "

_Andraste's flaming tits, no! "_ Cole! That's-- Maker I'm-- I'm so sorry, Cole."

"Why is it always fire?" he mused, head down. A beat. "You're embarrassed? Why?"

"Yes, I... I feel as though I've done you wrong."

His expression turned quizzical. "You haven't hurt me?"

Anger and fear welled within her: anger at her transgression, and fear that he may someday be hurt in such a way. The words spilled out of her in a rush. "Never without your consent, do you understand? Never let someone touch you like-- like _that_ \--without your explicit desire."

"Yes, I see. Two hearts beat as one. Spirit and will made manifest, like me. It is not for the unwilling."

"No, it is not. It is a binding act, Cole. A consummation of love and affection. It is a promise not to be taken lightly. Forgive me for my intrusion-- it was not my intent."

"But..." he fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. Stared at the floor. "You feel affection for me."

"I do. But that is not enough, _da'len._ Like a dance, it requires two. Even in dreams, I'd prefer that it were so."

"I like you, rabbit."

A sharp glance turned soft at the uncertainty in his posture. He was so delicate, so gentle, so unsure of himself. _Not like that, ma'vhenan. In time you will understand._

He glanced upward, finally, met her eyes. "I think I'd like to understand."

"Someday, _ma'len._ " _And she will be a most blessed lass who wins your love._ "Someday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I was gonna hold off posting this for a chapter or two, but I already had it written, so I thought, what the heck? Lol, Samara has a really boring grounding exercise, huh? *That* sure was fun to write. Not.   
> This is my first time writing any kind of smut, and I daresay it shows. Then again, I was going for weird. Non-traditional. I think as she gets more comfortable in her skin, things will get more normal. So then I'll have to learn how to do that. Agh! It seems so simple when I read it, y'know? But boy is it not. 
> 
> Dalish:
> 
> Okay, so firstly lemme say that I can't decide whether "I love you" should be ar lath, or ar lath ma, as I've seen both said. I'm confused to find that ma can either mean my/mine or you/your. 
> 
> Vhenan'ara: Heart's desire  
> Ma'vhenan: My heart  
> Sa'lath: One love  
> Ma'arlath: My love  
> Ar lath ma: I love you  
> Da'len: Little child/little one  
> Ma'len: My child/little one
> 
> Yeah, she's really piling on the endearments here.


	30. Sera Was Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara drops by the tavern for the first time, where she meets Sera. A chat ensues.

The Singing Maiden was unlike anything Samara had personally experienced. Not as lofty as the Haven Chantry, to be sure, but an impressive bit of architecture all the same. And, naturally, the atmosphere was very much distinct. She was unsure how to feel about it; the dim lighting, the strange, smoky scents, the flirtatious barkeep. She focused instead on the lovely cathedral ceiling, the pelts adorning the walls, and the wooden high-back chairs. It was far grander than her quarters, she thought. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, either. Frankly, her lodgings were more than enough for her taste-- this was bordering on profane. No, that wasn't right. The people deserved their comforts, especially in times such as these. Still, it stung to see such decoration and size in a building for any purpose but the worship of the Maker, and even in that case the opulence seemed unwarranted; distracting. Where was the humility? She supposed this was an aspect of human society to which she must grow accustomed. It was discomfiting nonetheless. She had not realized how much her own people lacked until she saw the possibilities the human world flaunted. Even though she was unused to such trappings-- perhaps even disliked them --that did not make them _wrong_. After all, she had seen the restored Temple of Sacred Ashes; this was as nothing before that grandeur. That was meant to be a holy place, she knew, but it stank of excess. And now it was gone. Another holy site lost to the ages. Would it be rebuilt once more?

She shook herself from her thoughts, fingers idly tracing the rim of her pint. She took a seat near the door, ready to retreat if the situation grew too overwhelming. Naturally, she began to think of Cole. A slow trickle in the back of her mind, at first, quickly become a flood. How best to address her... predicament? Could she simply pretend it had never occurred? Could she keep her mind from wandering so?

"What's got you so glum then?"

A blond elf sidled close, nudging at Samara's shoulder. The new recruit: Sera.

She stared down at her mug, considering. "It is personal."

"Psh! World's gone tits up, all demony and wrong. It's the end, innit? But here you are, all elfy and stupid, looking like someone just shat in your breeches. Should be celebrating before it's done! Nothing's too personal for the end of the world. Personal," she spat the word out like it tasted acrid, "you say, _personal!_ Bah."

She paused. Contemplated. What harm could it do? This Sera knew nothing of her problems, would not recognize the parties involved. Confessing to a stranger might ease her burden with little in the way of consequences. "It's about a man," she said finally.

"Frig. 'Course it is. It's always a man. Bloody shame, too. Well, what's his name? What's he about? No, let me guess, too personal, yeah?"

She nodded.

"What's the problem then? Don't know what goes where?"

Samara blinked. And blinked again. "What? Of course I do!"

"Right good, that! Didn't want to have to break out a banana. Ripe peaches are more my taste." She chuckled, high-pitched and lecherous. "So _juicy!_ I could show you sometime, quick as you please. Or not, if you catch my meaning there." She winked.

" _Maker,_ no, thank you. I barely know you."

"Psh, bit of a prig, ain't ya? Prig an' prude. Your loss. So tell me about your _man_ troubles. I'll do my best not to wretch on your prissy boots, Elfy."

Samara gazed at the rambunctious elf, completely unsure what to think. Did she like her, or hate her? She couldn't be sure, but it seemed there would be no middle ground. Time would tell. And were her boots really _prissy?_ They didn't seem particularly special. "I suppose I'm beginning to desire what I cannot have."

"Old news, that. Stuffy prigs like you been saying that for ages. Here's some new bits: it's bollocks, all of it. If you want something, you take it. Simple as pie. No such thing as can't, least of all for you lot."

She frowned. Set her jaw. "What are you implying?"

"Means you noble sort get your way with a nod and some coin. Bet you could buy me up with a word, yeah? Then I'd be sat licking your prissy boots. Least they'd give it a go. Go on, just try it."

 _Noble?_ "Is that what you think of me? Truly, I have no interest in either slavery or servitude."

"Tell that to your servants. It's what they all say, besides, 'til they need their shit lugged or their nob waxed. Then it's 'bow down,' and 'I own you.' But here's the rub, Elfy: nobody owns me. Nobody."

She frowned, shoulders hunched, head bowed. "I was a slave, Sera. When I was but a child."

"No, right? Shit. The Herald of bloody Andraste, all shiny-bright, was a low-as-they-go _slave?_ How'd you get up here then, high and mighty like?"

"To put it simply, luck. And the kindness of others."

"Well, don't go forgetting about us lowly folk, yeah? Not often one of us makes it into the bleeding ivory tower. Runs red on our blood, it does. Hence the bleeding. Get it?"

She couldn't help the answering smirk. "I assure you, I will not forget."

"Good on ya. Think on it-- change the world, you can! Right the wrongs, make the little folk big and all that. Put them stuffy nobles in their place for once. We're lucky to have one like you."

That notion was flattering, even if it was born solely of a kinship with her erstwhile "lowliness." It was better than nothing, no? To be wanted, even if not for her own merits, was a gift. "Thank you, Sera."

"Pff, yeah. So go on, tell me about this man."

Samara sighed wistfully. "He is remarkable. Charming, honest, astute, kind. I have met no other like him."

"Not seeing a problem there, Elfy."

She shook her head. "All of these qualities... they are fragile, Sera. The world destroys what it touches, what it can. I worry I am too like the world in this respect. I will not allow myself to be his ruin."

Sera slapped Samara's thigh with a roughened palm, laughing heartily. "Can't you hear yourself? That's ridiculous!"

A frown. She chewed her bottom lip. "How so?"

"Listen to you, all doom and gloom. You worship this lucky sod! Destroy him, pah. Like you'd let yourself."

"And what if it is not within my control? What then? It seems too great a risk."

"Look: everything's a risk, Elfy. Life's a bloody risk. That don't stop you from living. You like him, want him, loooove him. Means you won't hurt him, yeah? Not if you can help it."

Samara felt a blush rising in her cheeks. "Perhaps it is as you say."

"'Course it is, dum-dum! I'm always right."

Samara took a healthy swig of her ale, and settled back in her seat.

A pretty young maid entered the tavern, golden hair flowing like honey down her back. Sera perked up instantly. "Time for me to work my magic!" She blew on her fingers. "Stop by for a hobnob now and again, yeah?" And with that, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I don't like Sera, though trying to write her made me like her more, for some reason. I really just threw her in to challenge myself. I wanted to do something that made me uncomfortable, and this accomplished it, alright.


	31. Brighter then Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara finds Cole after her chat with Sera.

Samara found Cole upon the overhang of a low roof, overlooking the small Haven courtyard where Revas and Nibbles played. It was a task to join him; the alcohol had muddied her vision and dulled her senses. It was her first time indulging, and the single pint-- not even fully finished --was more than sufficient to addle her mind. She felt in a dream-haze, slow and hobbled by her body's confusion. The world was off-kilter, slow motion. It was beautiful and terrible both.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked, taking her place beside him. Their legs dangled in the cool breeze.

He cocked his head. "Listening."

"To the people?"

"Yes." He gazed downward, hat flopping and pale hair twisting. "Their hurts are very loud."

"But that's not all you hear, yes? You can hear their hopes, their dreams, their love and joy and all the beauty in between."

A pause. "No."

She froze. "But Cole..." her breath caught momentarily, eyes struggling to focus on the side of his face, "...you hear more in me than the hurts."

"Yes," he answered, hesitation in his voice, "I do."

"I don't understand. Why do you see in me what you cannot in them?"

"I don't know."

"Could it be the mark?" she asked, flexing her hand before her face.

"No. I don't think so. It's loud, but obscuring. Bright but different. It doesn't talk."

She chuckled. "But I do."

"Yes. Blinding, brilliant, bold, bound. Gilt and golden, glimmering in the great gray swath of this world. Beauty and horror and bright blood coursing in the veins. I see _you,_ rabbit. But I don't know why."

"Well," she said, hand reaching, curling in his hair. Heart racing. "I suppose I'll consider myself honored."

He leant his face against her palm, and it took her breath away. Tentative, she moved against him, tracing the contours of his cheek with her thumb. "Cole," she whispered, feeling her body drawing closer of its own accord.

"Rabbit?" He was facing her now, backlit by the sun, and she was struck by the light of him. Brighter than the dawn.

"I--" she began, fumbling. Her hand trailed lower, angling towards his parted lips, then retracted. It was an abrupt gesture, leaving him staring after her quivering fingers. "I am glad you chose to join us."

He smiled, a soft thing. "Me too."

***

Samara retired early to her quarters. The alcohol's haze had left her in a rush, and now her ears rang and her head ached. She groaned, frowning, and collapsed upon her cot. This was a most unwelcome experience.

In a flash of whirling smoke, Cole was there. He stood before her, likewise frowning. "Why does it hurt?" he asked.

"Oh." She ran her hands through her hair, chuckling despite herself. "It would seem I drank more than was strictly wise, _da'len._ It is no matter-- it will pass, in time." Her frown deepened. "Shouldn't you be out... helping those in need?"

"I am."

She grinned abruptly. "Ah. Well, I thank you."

His answering smile was small but warm. "How can I help?" He sat down beside her, the cot sinking beneath his weight.

"Just be." She shifted, meeting his eyes. Her hand found his and squeezed. "Stay. With me," she amended.

And he did.


End file.
